


One Day at a Time

by LumosLyra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Developing Friendships, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Flying, Forgiveness, One Big Happy Weasley Family (Harry Potter), POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Quidditch, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2019-08-09 00:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16439402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosLyra/pseuds/LumosLyra
Summary: Hermione Granger stumbles upon a down-on-his-luck Draco Malfoy in a bar one evening and invites him to crash in her spare room for as long as he needs it while he works to get himself back on his feet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Oh look! Another new story. I swear I intend to finish all of my works in progress one of these days. This plot bunny has been hopping around my brain for about a week now and wouldn’t stop until I started putting metaphorical pen to paper.
> 
> I have three chapters written and a few more ideas in my head. I have no idea how long this story will be. It could be five chapters or fifteen or even fifty. I’m aiming for at least 4k words per chapter. It’s unedited and un-betaed, so be nice if you catch any major mistakes. 
> 
> If you can guess the book (or series) that is referenced in this chapter, I might offer the promise of a Draco/Hermione one-shot on the prompt of your choice. 
> 
> As always, I am a poor, public school employee who just likes to play around in the world JK Rowling created. 
> 
> On with the show!

I’m not entirely certain how I ended up in this particular pub, but they serve a decent scotch, so I suppose it’s alright.  I swirl the amber colored liquid around in the rocks glass with the intent on taking another sip when I feel a presence behind me.  With everything that happened during the war, I stiffen and knock back the remainder of my scotch in one motion fully expecting that whoever is behind me knows who I am and is about to punch my lights out.  It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

 

“Are you alright?”  The voice of a concerned sounding female comes from behind my left ear.  Well, that was a waste of my scotch.  

 

I shrug my shoulders and issue a non-committal grunt as I motion to the bartender for a refill of the scotch.  I don’t even want to think about my tab right now.

 

The woman slips onto the barstool next to me and I catch a glimpse of tanned skin and long, straight hair the color of caramel. 

 

As the bartender passes me my next glass of scotch, clearing away the empty one, the woman beside me orders a vodka tonic in a voice that for some reason, makes me feel better.  The lilting sound of her honeyed tones in a smooth alto feels like home, though I have no reason to associate her in the manner.  Given that she is more than likely a muggle, the probability of me seeing her (or hearing her voice) ever again is slim to none.

 

She simply sits in silence beside me as I wallow in my own pity.  I’m halfway through my glass of scotch before she says anything.

 

“You don’t have to talk to me, but I’m here if you need someone to listen,” she says, and I see her lift her glass to her lips.  I turn my head slightly and see that she’s brought a book… to a pub.  Who does that?

 

I watch as she traces the rim of her glass with a tastefully manicured nail while her other hand turns a page of the book.  I catch the author’s name at the top of one of the pages and decide to say something.  Hopefully it doesn’t come out too slurred, I’m not even entirely certain how much I’ve had to drink. 

 

“Which one are you reading?”

 

She holds the novel up for me to see the cover.  A little boy is holding up a glowing blue orb towards a man who doesn’t look much older than me while a much older man with a long beard in the background stands with his arms aloft. 

 

“Book 3.”  I can hear the smile in her voice when she says which book she is on, but I keep my eyes downcast.  I don’t need her to look into my eyes and see everything that is wrong with my world.  Once glance and she would instantly know, I’m certain of it.

 

“Have you read the entire series?”

 

“Many times,” she says, marking the page with a bookmark she had apparently pulled out of the text sometime earlier. “I just needed a good adventure to lose myself in, you know?”

 

I nod, still unsure why I’m making small talk with this muggle woman.  Maybe it’s the warmth in her voice or perhaps it’s the fact that I’m desperate for someone to confide in given the circumstances of the past twenty-four hours in which my life went to utter shite.

 

“Have you read it?”  She asks and I see her lift her glass upwards again, presumably to take another drink.

 

“I’ve read the author’s entire works.” Honestly, they were my first introduction to muggle literature.  I snuck out of the manor one day and went to a muggle bookshop where I purchased my first book written by a non-wizard, and it just happened to be about magic, though they were called sorcerers, not wizards, and there were no wands, simply the will and the word.  It was what motivated me to practice wandless magic more, if I’m being completely honest.

 

“Do you have a favorite?”  She asks, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand as she draws a finger around the rim of her glass.  I can make out the curve of her cheek in my peripheral vision, but I generally keep my eyes down.  I probably look like I’m peering into my scotch like my life depended on it. 

 

We continue to discuss the series, comparing characters from the various works and the similarities between the story lines for several minutes.  Her laugh is like a balm for my fractured soul when I tell her who my favorite character is (of course he is the most cunning of the bunch) while hers is a brilliant scholar who is misunderstood due to his outward appearance.

 

“Thank you.”  I say, finally getting the courage to look at her.  Of course, she’s stunning.  Her caramel colored hair is parted on the side and extends down to her elbows.  Her eyes are a few shades darker than the scotch in my glass with flecks of gold throughout and the way she smiles at me carries all the way up to those amber colored orbs.  I’m nearly certain I could get lost in them for days. 

 

“For what?” she asks and I can tell she knows my mood has vastly improved from the state she found me in.

 

“For turning my day around.” I say, “it’s been a rough twenty-four hours.”  I want to confide in her but I know I’ll need to be careful.  Muggles aren’t supposed to know about our world, after all.

 

She inclines her head and smiles at me.  It’s another warm, kind smile that you would give someone you might be friends with. “I’m still here if you’d like to talk about it.”

 

My eyes drift back down into my nearly empty glass of scotch.  How do you explain to someone that your father disowned you for refusing to marry a perfectly adequate witch?  How do you explain to someone that your father kicked you out with your wand, the clothes on your back, and the money in your wallet?  I’m not even certain I have access to my vault at Gringotts. The worst thing is not knowing how to explain to someone that your mother, who you thought loved you above all else, supported your father’s decision.

 

“I…”  I try to speak but I’m struggling with my words.  I’m honestly not certain if it’s due to however much scotch I’ve managed to consume or the gravity of my situation.  Probably my situation, I don’t feel nearly as drunk as I did when Aphrodite herself with her subtle floral perfume sat down beside me and ordered a vodka tonic. 

 

“I guess the short of it is that I was kicked out by my folks.”  There.  I said it.  I admitted to myself and to this nameless muggle woman that I no longer have a home.  Hell, I’m probably no longer even considered a Malfoy, at least not by the two people who were supposed to love me above all others.  No, money and power are more important when you’re a Malfoy, despite the claim that family is their top priority.

 

We protect our own, he always said.  Big, fat lie that was.  They’re probably dancing sideways in the library where I left them trying to make another heir because their only son didn’t want to marry a witch he didn’t love.

 

Haven’t I sacrificed enough?  I shouldn’t have to sacrifice love too.

 

“Oh, Draco,” she croons as she rests one of those perfectly manicured hands on my shoulder.  Her touch is apparently the exact thing I’ve been trying to find at the bottom of a barrel of scotch since everything happened.  I instantly feel better as I feel her hand gently rub my altogether too tense shoulder. 

 

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” She asks and I barely make out the words through the euphoria that is this muggle woman rubbing my shoulder. 

 

“I’ll work something out.” I manage to mutter.

 

Wait.  I never told this woman my name.  How did she know who I was?  I would swear on a signed, first edition of Hogwarts a History that she wasn’t a witch.  She was in a pub in the heart of muggle London with a muggle book wearing muggle clothing.  She drank muggle liquor and is probably even wearing muggle perfume.

 

Oh fuck.  She’s probably a muggleborn in which case she probably hates me for the role I and my now not-family played in the war a few years back.  Backing up again, she’s been nothing but nice to me. 

 

She knows my name.  Do I know her?  I turn my head again and look up at her, being careful to truly observe her features and compare them with anyone I may know.  If her hair would curly she would look an awful lot like…

 

“I have a spare bedroom if you need a place to crash.” 

 

I’m fairly certain I look at her as though she’s grown a second head.  I see it now.  Everything makes sense.  The planets align.   I take that back, nothing makes sense. 

 

I sputter out her surname because I can’t begin to even think about calling her by her first name “Granger?”

 

Her laughter feels my ears and I suddenly feel very strange for thinking what a beautiful sound it was not moments ago.  “Really, Draco?  We’ve been chatting for at least a half hour and you just now notice?”

 

I know my eyes narrow and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.  “You look nothing like yourself.”  Well, that was a thoroughly idiotic thing to say.  She looks exactly like herself, only much more elegant… and hot damn is she gorgeous.

 

Fuck.  I’m attracted to Granger.  When did my life get this weird?  I’m not sure if I should be blaming my father or the scotch at this point.

 

She just shrugs her shoulders and takes a sip of her vodka tonic, which I notice is primarily ice at this point.  “My date went south.”  She laughs again and I’m smitten.  I silently pray to myself that there isn’t some kind of ridiculous grin on my face but I can’t be entirely certain because I can’t really feel my face thanks to the scotch.

 

“It’s normally jumpers and jeans,” she says as she motions to her hair, “and you know, the curls.  This was all Ginny’s doing.  She was convinced he was _the one_ , if you know what I mean.” 

 

I forget for a moment who exactly is sitting in front of me and I blurt out, “Well, he sounds like an idiot, you look fantastic.”

 

She blushes.  She fucking blushes and I think it’s forever seared into my brain.  Then I remember it’s Granger.  Best friend of Harry Potter.  Insufferable Know-it-All. Gryffindor’s Princess.  The Brains of the Golden Trip.  War Hero.  That last bit is probably the most important because I’m fairly certain that without her, I would be permanently prostrated before a madman without a nose.

 

I touch my nose.  Probably the last time she touched me before she put her hand on my shoulder tonight was to punch me in the face.  I deserved it.  Looking back on myself, I would’ve punched thirteen-year-old me in the face too, and maybe in a few other choice places for how much of a git I was.

 

“Thanks, Draco.”  I hear her mutter and I’m brought back into the present, away from my thoughts.  I notice she’s been using my first name, which I find odd.  She’s always been Granger and I’ve always been Malfoy. 

 

I remember her offer and I still can’t fathom how we got to this point.  Again, we are in Muggle London. Granger looks like a runway model.  My parents have just disowned me and she’s offering to let me crash in her spare bedroom.  My life has already turned upside down, so I may as well keep it spinning on its axis before it decides to change that as well.

 

“Why are you offering to help me?”  I ask, probably a bit too skeptically.

 

She reaches out and places her hand atop mine.  Given that it’s the middle of winter, I would expect it to be freezing, but it’s warm and soft.  “I know what it’s like to be orphaned and left to fend for yourself.” 

 

I remember reading something in the Prophet not long after the war ended where the story of how Granger oblivated her parents and sent them to Australia was told.  To my knowledge, they are still there, completely oblivious to her existence. That much be significantly more awful that my situation.  Her parents loved her and she sent them away so they would be safe.  I thought mine loved me, but they turned their backs as soon as I did something they didn’t approve of.

 

I almost mutter, “Malfoy’s don’t take charity” but I stop myself before the words cross my lips.  I’m not a Malfoy anymore, unless my parents decide to relent, but I don’t see that happening.  Why they can’t just make business deals without involving their children being tied to one another for eternity?

 

Instead, I probably put my foot in my mouth again when I ask her, “But don’t you hate me, like everyone else?” It’s true, I am not well liked by the wizarding community because of my role in Dumbledore’s death.

 

She shakes her head and gives my hand a gentle squeeze.  I can almost imagine how her curls would bounce instead of the straight hair she’s got right now.  I imagine it would be rather mesmerizing.  “Not particularly.  I learned how important forgiveness was to the healing process.”

 

“Oh.”  Not only does she not think I’m the scum of the earth, she’s actually forgiven me.  I realize at that moment I’ve never apologized to her for all of the nasty things I said to her, not to mention everything else that happened during the war. 

 

“Granger, I…”  She stops me by holding up her hand.  I kind of wish she would put it back on top of my hand.

 

“You don’t have to apologize, Draco.  I meant what I said, I forgive you.” She draws in a breath and gets that look of determination on her face that I remember from school.  She looks much more like herself right now than she has all evening.  I can’t say it detracts from her loveliness.

 

“Now, my offer still stands.  If you need a place to crash, even if it’s just for a night, I have a spare bedroom.”

 

I honestly don’t have anywhere else to go.  There’s not enough in my wallet for a decent hotel room, especially after I pay this bar tab and I don’t know yet if I still have access to my personal vault. After I left yesterday, I wandered around London and have been in this pub for the past several hours.  I’m probably in desperate need of a shower and a shave, but I don’t even have any clean clothes.  When I said they kicked me out with the clothes on my back, I meant it in the most literal sense. 

 

I swallow my pride and force myself to look at her.  She looks nothing but sincere.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

 

“Not at all.  I don’t live very far, either.  I’m not sure you’re in a fit state to apparate.”

 

We pay our respective tabs and I thumb through the money in my wallet.  I can probably buy myself a few items of clothing, but I won’t be able to get much.  My head starts swimming when I start thinking about everything I might need to survive.  Now I know exactly why my father did this.  It was just another ploy to bend me to his will.

 

I shrug on my coat as my companion wraps herself in her own.  I hold the door for her to pass through before stepping out into the cold, winter air.  The sun has set and the sky is dark, but the stars at visible because of the cloud cover.  I’ve always enjoyed looking at the stars.  One half of my family is named after them, but I think they would bring little comfort tonight. 

 

I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat as I walk beside the one woman I never thought I would see again.  We walk in relative silence, listening the ambient sounds of the night coupled with the crunch of our shoes in the shallow layer of quickly hardening snow.

 

“What happened?” she asks, finally breaking the silence as we turn another corner and start down a street of small, but trim town homes.  Many of them are a non-descript brown but there are several which have potted plants near the entry way or front doors painted in various colors.

 

“I finally stood up to my father.”  I say.  It’s ultimately the truth.  I catch her inquisitive look out of the corner of my eye and elaborate further.  “There was a marriage contract coupled with a business deal.”

 

I look over at her and her amber colored eyes have grown about three sizes larger than normal.  It’s clear she didn’t know that those types of arrangements still exist in our world.  I hate to tell her, but pureblood mania is still alive and well, especially with the older generation.  It doesn’t take a Dark Lord for hate to continue to fester, even if it is over something as silly as blood.

 

“I refused the contract and was told in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t accept it, I would no longer be welcome in my own home and I would be completely cut off.  Father will probably wait a month or two for me to “come to my senses” as he put it before he completely disinherits me, but it’s what is coming.” 

 

I languidly kick a discarded snowball aside, though it has turned to ice by this point.  It lands with a thud against the stoop of one of the homes.

 

“Anyone who goes against their preconceived notions is cast out.  I finally do something for me and am promptly informed that I don’t hold that family’s interests closely enough that therefore am no longer part of the family.”

 

I glance over at the witch at my side once more.  She’s biting her bottom lip and appears lost in her thoughts.  I wonder what she thinks of my story.  Poor little rich boy, what does he know about misery? Well, he’s about to learn a whole hell of a lot.  How do people live without mountains of galleons in their vaults?  I suppose I’m going to find out.  I’m certain I’ll be eating vast amounts of humble pie over the next year.

 

“Would it be impertinent of me to ask why you didn’t want to sign the contract?”  She asks and I’m honestly a little floored.  I would have expected her to launch into a tirade about the injustice of my being disowned or even a soliloquy of how awful my family is, but instead she asks for a reason why I didn’t go along with it. 

 

I’ve already told her more than I should have tonight, I might as well tell her the truth.  “I wasn’t in love.” 

 

“Oh.”  I hear her breathe and I know she probably has some sort of poetic ideal in her head now.  Love, rainbows, unicorns – all of that swill girls are taught before they’re even out of their nappies.  I consider myself a realist.  I know that finding love can be easy – especially if you meet _the one_ as they say, but staying in love takes a lot of work. 

 

“She was a perfectly acceptable witch.  Beautiful, accomplished, charming… but I didn’t love her.  Maybe I could have in time, but I wasn’t willing to commit myself to someone for life on a _maybe_.”

 

“Marriage is so different here than in the muggle world.”  She says as we turn another corner.  I start wondering if we’ve already passed her home because it feels like we’ve been walking for hours.  That could also be the alcohol in my system talking.

 

I doubt she even knows the half of it.  “Divorce is exceedingly rare in our world.” I comment with a shrug of my shoulders.  “If I’m going to be bound to someone for the rest of my days, I want to be certain that she’s the one.” 

 

She stops in front of on the brown bricked homes with a bright blue door, though there are no plants outside on the stoop.  “I think that’s admirable, Draco.”

 

“Thanks, Granger.”  I say, still unable to bring myself to use her first name.  She doesn’t seem offended in the least, for which I am grateful.

 

She motions to the home before us.  “This is it.”  She says as she walks up the step and draws a key somewhere out of her bag.  “It isn’t much, but it’s home.”  There’s something sad about the way she says the word _home_ and I know that she probably thinks of her parents whenever she says that world.  Even though we’re a few years out from the end of the war, she must still miss them terribly.  I wonder if the spell was unable to be reversed or if she was unable to locate them in Australia.

 

I keep my mouth shut as we enter her home.  It’s tidy and sparsely decorated but there’s a distinct warmth about it.  Mismatched pillows sit on a sofa and a loveseat while a wingback chair in a faded blue is positioned near the hearth.  There are a few picture frames here and there in the small space while three books are stacked up on an end table.  Gauzy curtains in a blue color hang alongside the windows and I can imagine the natural light that filters in during the day. 

 

“There’s not much downstairs – mainly the sitting room and the kitchen.  There are three bedrooms upstairs as well as the loo.”  She sheds her coat and hangs it on a rack near the door and for the first time I notice she’s wearing a cocktail dress in a deep indigo.  Right.  She had a date before she managed to stumble across me.

 

“It’s nice, Granger.”  I say.  On the one hand, it’s nice to know that I at least have somewhere to sleep, but on the other hand, I’m in Granger’s house.  Despite the fact that she says she’s forgiven me, I still feel the distinct need to prove myself. 

 

She walks towards a set of stairs I see across the sitting room. “I’m sure you’re tired after everything you’ve been through, let me show you to the guest room.” 

 

We ascend the stairs to the top floor and she opens a door down a short hallway.  “This is the loo.  I have a few things in there that don’t smell like flowers for when Harry or Ron stay over.”

 

Up until this moment I had completely forgotten about the remaining two thirds of the Gilded Trifecta.  I shudder to think what they would do if they knew I was here.  Potter and I were always at odds and I can’t say I ever found Weasley to be pleasant.  I peer into the bathroom and see that it’s simple, much like the rest of the house.  All of the fixtures are an off-white color while the cabinetry is a darker wood.

 

We continue down the short hallway and she opens another door.  The room is small, but there is a bed, which takes up the majority of the space, looks comfortable and is covered in a simple blue duvet.  There is a chest of drawers near one wall and a door that leads to what I can only assume is a small closet. 

 

She draws her eyes over me and I can tell that she’s thinking again before she walks over the chest of drawers and pulls out a simple cotton t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants.  She places the folded clothes on top of the bed.  “I hope those will fit.  They’re Harry’s, but I doubt he’ll mind if you borrow them.” 

 

He’ll probably burn them if he knows I’ve been in the same room with them, let alone wore them.  I keep my thoughts to myself and thank the witch for her hospitality instead.  “Thank you, Granger.  I’m truly in your debt.” 

 

She shrugs her shoulders and gives me a kind smile.  “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything.”

 

She leaves the room, her dress flouncing as she walks.  I hear her footsteps stop and notice she releases a sigh before I can’t hear her walking anymore.  She must have taken off her shoes, Pansy used to complain about her heels all of the time, but she refused to take them off.

 

Thinking of Pansy makes me I wish I could have crashed with one of my friends, but life has a funny way of things sometimes.  Theo is on assignment over in the United States doing something for the auror department while Blaise went to Italy for the holidays.  Pansy is still living at home while finishing up her healer training.  Knowing that my mother and hers are best friends means that there is no way they would open their home up to me.  Perhaps I could stay with Theo and his boyfriend once he returns to England.

 

I grab the small bundle of clothes she’s left out for me and make my way to the bathroom.  I fiddle with the knobs until I can get the water to an acceptable temperature before I let the steam overwhelm my senses.  I give myself a few moments to relax before scrubbing myself raw.  If I’m going to start over, I might as well be clean for it.  When I get out of the shower, I dry myself with a towel and slip into the clothing she laid out for me.  The shirt is a little snug and the pants are just a bit too long, but they’re not too uncomfortable. 

 

I cast a quick cleaning charm over my clothes, but I know they’ll need to be properly laundered sooner than later. 

 

When I make my way back into the small bedroom, I see a vial of what I assume to be a sobering potion on the bedside table and a hastily scrawled note on a scrap of parchment.

 

_Take it one day a time.  We can make a plan to get you on your feet tomorrow._   

 

I knock back the potion, grimacing at the sour taste of it before my head truly starts to clear.  Sinking down into the bed, I look around the small space and sigh.  I’m have no idea how to move forward.  The easiest solution would be to go crawling back to my father, marry the witch in question, and be the perfect little Malfoy heir that everyone expects me to be.  That wouldn’t make me happy.  Right now, the only thing I truly want is to find some measure of happiness in my bleak existence.

 

I extinguish the lights with a wandless spell before my hands fold behind my head as I lay back onto the pillows. 

 

One day at a time? 

 

Here’s hoping that tomorrow looks a little brighter than today. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

I’m not certain if it’s morning or midday when I finally wake up from a night of restful sleep.  There is sun streaming through the gauzy curtains at the window and it makes me miss my drapes in my room at the Manor which generally blocked out the sun.  But this is nice too.  I almost feel refreshed waking up with the sunlight on my face.

 

What was it that Granger’s note said last night?  One day a time.

 

I know I need to get out of bed and go into the Alley today to check on the status of whether or not my Gringotts account is still intact, but the warmth of the bed is making me want to be thoroughly lazy.  With a resigned sigh, I force myself out from underneath the blue comforter and take care of my morning ablutions in the loo. 

 

I tug the comforter back into position as best I can – I’ve honestly never made my own bed before, but it seems wrong to leave it a rumpled mess.  If I remember anything about Granger from school it was that silly crusade against House Elves.  I fold the clothing I slept in and tuck them under one of the pillows before dressing back in my own clothing.  It’s stiff, but at least it’s free of wrinkles and is back to smelling neutral.  I make a note to try and buy a few items of clothing today – that’s my most pressing need, apart from food, and I’m fairly certain Granger won’t let me starve.

 

I don’t know what time it is, so I close the door behind me quietly and make my way down the stairs.  I’m greeted by the smell of fresh coffee, bacon, and something I can’t identify. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I walk into the kitchen.  Granger is seated at the small table in the corner still in her pajamas.  Her head is buried in a copy of the Daily Prophet and she has a piece of toast grasped between to fingers.  I can tell that her hair is starting to curl again, though it’s piled haphazardly on top of her head.  This is the Granger I remember from school. 

 

I clear my throat to get her attention as it was obvious she didn’t realize I had walked in.  It must not be too late if she’s still in her pajamas, but I honestly don’t know a thing about the witch.  It could be two o’clock in the afternoon for all I know. 

 

She looks up from the Prophet and it takes her a second to realize exactly why I’m in her house but then her expression softens. “Good morning.”  She greets me, setting the piece of toast down on a plate that appears to be made of something akin to paper.

 

“Morning.”  I say, standing awkwardly in the archway leading into the kitchen.  I don’t know what to do with myself. We’re on her turf and I think we’re both unsure of how to proceed without the alcohol from last night in our systems. 

 

She motions to the stove which is off to the side.  “I made breakfast.  There’s bacon and muffins.  I don’t really like eggs, but I can make you some if you want.”  She pauses as if she’s forgetting something.  “Oh!  And there’s coffee made, there but there’s tea in the cabinet, if you’d prefer that.”  She says, pointing to a cabinet near the stove. 

 

This is so unlike anything I’m used to.  I’ve never gotten my own food off of the stove and had to rummage in a cabinet for a plate.  Everything at Hogwarts was served on platters while at the Manor we were served by the house elves. 

 

“This is great, Granger.  Thank you.”  I say.  I probably can’t thank this witch enough and if I truly intend on turning over a new leaf, I need to leave everything that happened between the two of us in the past.

 

I fix myself a plate and pour myself a cup of black coffee and sit down at the table across from Granger who has gone back and buried herself in the Prophet. I want to inhale the food in front of me, but I force myself to slow down and savor each bite.  The muffins are one of my favorite kinds and while they’re not quite as good as the ones the Malfoy house elves prepare they are still perfectly delicious. 

 

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do today?” She says, closing the Prophet and folding it over before taking a sip from her coffee which I can tell has a significant amount of milk if not also sugar. 

 

“I need to see if my vault at Gringotts is still intact and sort out some clothing.  I think those are my two priorities, at the moment.” 

 

She nods.  “That makes sense.  Are you wanting muggle clothes or wizarding robes?” 

 

“I think it’s going to depend on how much, if anything, is still in my vault.”  I can only hope that my father only cut me off from the Malfoy vault and not my personal one. 

 

“Would you like me to come with you?”  She asks, though I can tell she’s hesitant.  I’m currently a guest in her home, not a friend.

 

“That’s not necessary,” I say, in an attempt to take the pressure off of her.  “I just need to know if you’re connected to the floor or where I can apparate from.” 

 

“Yes, of course.  I’m connected to the floo, but you’ll have to use the one up in the library.”  Leave it to Granger to have her own library in this tiny home.  “The fireplace down here isn’t big enough.” 

 

I stand up from the table and place my dishes in the sink.  It’s embarrassing, but I don’t know how to wash them apart from hitting them with a scourgify spell. I think Granger senses my hesitation because of course, she says the perfect thing.

 

“I can teach you how to wash dishes later, if you want to learn.” 

 

I turn around from the sink and face her.  Just a few years ago, I would’ve sneered at her and probably called her a name for pointing out something I didn’t know how to do even though she was offering to help.  I have to remind myself that I am not who I was a few years ago.  I’m not the scared little boy she knew in school.  I’m trying to be a better man, even though I am at a point in my life where I am completely and truly lost.  It’s been less than two days since I was kicked out of the only home I’ve ever known and I’m just praying that it won’t get worse from here.

 

“I would like that.”  I think it’s important that I earn my keep.  I’m not so entitled that I can’t see that.

 

“Whenever you’re ready to leave, I can show you where the floo is.” 

 

……….

 

Stepping out of the Leaky Cauldron and through the barrier to Diagon Alley is always a moment of apprehension for me.  I never know if I’ll be able to pass through the Alley unmolested or if there will be people who curse me either verbally or with a wand.  I tuck my hands into the pockets of my coat and keep my head down as I make my way towards Gringotts. 

 

As always there are witches and wizards who stare as I pass, mothers who pull their children closer, and fathers who look at me with distinct disapproval for even existing.  But thankfully, no one attempts to jinx me and if they called me any slurs it was under their breath or in their minds.

 

I greet the goblin at the door and pass through the doors into the ancient bank.  Stepping up to my usual counter, I present my wand and hold my breath. 

 

“Mr. Malfoy, are you here today to make a withdrawal?” the goblin behind the counter says. 

 

“I would like a statement of my account before I make my decision.”  The goblin produces a piece of parchment with details my accounts and I am relieved to see that the contents of my personal vault are still available, though my access to the Malfoy family fault has been terminated.  I have enough to get me through at least a few months while I figure out my life.

 

I confirm that I am the only person who has access to my vault before making a sizeable withdrawal with the intention to first purchase some new clothing.  With Granger living in the middle of muggle London, getting some muggle clothing probably won’t be a bad idea, but I will need a few sets of robes because I know I will need to get a job somewhere to keep my head above water.  

 

I’ve always been groomed to take over my father’s company when the time comes, so the thought of having to find a job that is not being part of that company is terrifying.  I’m not even certain what I would want to do given the choice.  I’ve never had the choice. 

 

I take myself to Madam Malkin’s and order a few new sets of robes which should be ready to be picked up in a few days.  She gave me a very strange look when I paid out of my wallet instead of having her charge it to the Malfoy account, but she didn’t make a comment.

 

When I floo back to Granger’s house, I hear voices downstairs and I’m hesitant to make my presence known, though she has to be aware that I’ve come back into her home. I felt the wards brush me as I exited the floo. 

 

I hear the voices quiet down and I ahven’t even exited the library when I’m face to face with Granger again.  She must have run up the stairs because there she is standing at the top of them.  I see that she’s changed out of her pajamas and her hair is back to being down.  She’s dressed in simple muggle clothing and she’s smiling at me. 

 

Does she always smile?

 

“How’d it go?”  She asks, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest.  I’ve barely been in the house for a minute and she’s already asking me questions.  I wonder if it will be like this every time I come and go.

 

“My personal vault wasn’t touched so I have enough to last for a few months -

 

“Draco, that’s great!” she exclaims as her smile grows bigger than before.  She takes a step forward as if she’s going to hug me and then thinks better of it and attempts to pass it off as a bounce of sorts.

 

“ - but I need to sort out a job.  I also ordered some new robes from Malkin’s but I think I’d like to visit a muggle shop to get some everyday attire as well.”

 

“I was about to grab lunch with friends, but you’re welcome to come with us.  There’s a muggle shop nearby the café we were going to go to that has decent clothes for pretty affordable prices.” 

 

I wonder what Granger means by ‘decent’ but then I remember I can’t afford to be too picky any more.  No more hand tailored trousers from Milan and silk shirts from Paris.  At least I was wearing my favorite pair of dragon-leather shoes when I was kicked out of my home.

 

“When you say friends…” I start, afraid of exactly who is downstairs.  I know I must sound hesitant, but I truly am.  Do they even know I’m here?  What can they possibly think of Draco Malfoy, failed former Death Eater, staying with their best friend.

 

“The usual.  Harry, Ron, and Ginny.  Neville and Luna join us sometimes but they’re both busy today.”  She holds her hands out in a placating gesture.  “And before you completely say ‘no’, they already know you’re staying here, but I didn’t tell them why.  I figured it was up to you how much you wanted to divulge.  They trust me and are willing to give you a chance.”

 

I know I’m staring at her like she’s grown another head, or perhaps two heads, four arms, and possibly a few extra ears.  “Potter and… Weasley are willing to give me a chance?”  I probably shouldn’t call him _Weasel_ if I’m trying to be a better person than I was when we were in school.  No more childish nicknames, but I don’t know that I can bring myself to use their given names.

 

Granger nods, “And Ginny too.” 

 

“After everything we went through in school?”  I confirm, still quite shell-shocked at the prospect of having lunch with the entire Golden Trio and the youngest Weasley.

 

“Yes.” Her response is immediate so I know she’s telling the truth.  I wonder how much convincing she had to do in order to get them to be willing to accept me into their fold, at least until I screw up, which I’m nearly certain I will.  I can’t even imagine being civil to them, or rather them being civil to me.  I was a complete arse to them when we were younger.

“What the hell, why not?”  I say, nearly laughing.  It’s probably the first time I’ve come close to laughing or smiling for the first time in a while.  In the past forty-eight hours, I have been disowned and kicked out of my home, gotten drunk on scotch where I met Granger in a bar, slept in Granger’s spare room willingly, had Granger cook me breakfast, and now I’m going to lunch with a pride of Gryffindors.  I’m not even certain I could have dreamed up what happened over the past two days.

 

Her eyes widen and I can tell she’s surprised by my acquiescence but she looks happy that I’m willing to give it a go.  Maybe I’m just another project to her, like her house elves.  Granger did always seem to love to stick up for the downtrodden.  House elves.  Werewolves.  Malfoys. 

 

“Great!  Let’s go!”  I think she’s a little too excited about this.  I’m sure it will go horribly wrong, but I’ll never know unless I try. 

 

We’re greeted at the bottom of stairs by one tall red-head whose biceps look like they’re nearly the size of one of my thighs and I’m reminded that he went into professional Quidditch after we got out of school.  Next to Weasley stands Potter looking nearly the same as he did in school except the frames of his glasses are black and square, but his hair is still a complete disaster.  The Weasley sister looks like she’s ready to pounce if I put a toe out of line, but she looks rather pretty for a ginger.  She’s slim and nearly as tall as Weasley and Potter.  Everyone seems to tower over Granger who I’ve just realized is rather petite. 

 

They all look wary as I’m sure I do too, though Granger seems oblivious, she’s all smiles.  The peacekeeper.

 

We stare at each other for a brief moment before I stick my hand out in greeting, “Potter.”  I make sure to keep my tone as neutral as possible. He shakes my hand and I’m surprised to see that his grip is firm. 

 

“Malfoy” he says with a polite incline of his head. 

 

I do the same to Weasley who looks for a moment that he might catch Dragon Pox if he so much as touches my hand.  “Weasley.”  It takes a moment, but he shakes my hand. I honestly expected him to try and intimidate me by crushing my hand, but it’s just a firm handshake. 

 

“Malfoy.”  He sounds a little unsure addressing me, but at least he doesn’t sound angry.

 

I think about doing the same to the Weasley sister, but instead I just incline my head politely, “Hello, Ginny.”  I don’t know what else to call her.  She would probably hex me if I called her by her full name or her surname.  I think it would get too confusing to call her Weasley if that’s what I’m referring to her brother as. 

 

“Lovely.  Now that we’re all reacquainted, let’s go eat.”  Hermione says, breaking the tense silence.

 

The four Gryffindors laugh and joke around with each other as we walk down the street. I find myself somewhat jealous of the ease in which they communicate with each other so I trail a step behind, unsure of how to insert myself into any of their conversations.  It makes me miss my own friends who are off living their lives, as they should be.  I suppose it’s my own fault for the mess I got myself in, but I refuse to be cowed.  

 

By the time we make it to the café, everyone’s cheeks are pink from the cool, winter air.  Coats are shed and hung on hooks near the door and we are escorted to a table by the hostess. The menu has simple fare and for once I’m glad to just be able to order a sandwich rather than sit through a three-course meal with proper etiquette at what was once my home. 

 

Weasley orders enough for three people.  I’ve seen him eat before and know exactly how much he can pack away. 

 

Potter sits with his arm around Ginny’s chair and I notice the modest diamond adorning her left hand, but I don’t see a matching band.  I realize that they must be engaged to one another.  My suspicions are confirmed when he leans over and kisses her hair and she looks at him as if the rest of the world has faded away. 

 

That’s the kind of love I want.   That’s the reason I gave up everything.  Well, I didn’t give it up – it was taken from me, but I suppose the sentiment still stands, though I wasn’t aware I would be giving up my rather comfortable life simply by desiring to be in love when I marry.

 

Though the conversations, I gather that Potter works as an Auror for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement while Ginny writes a column for the Prophet though she’ll be trying out for the Harpies in the spring.  I already knew Weasley played Keeper for the Cannons.  I find out that Granger is a researcher at the Ministry but she’s currently working on a case for the Department for Experimental Charms. 

 

I don’t say a lot throughout lunch, speaking primarily when spoken to. I’m still not sure how to fit in with this group.  They’ve been friends since we were kids and I was awful to them.  I keep my tone polite and answer their questions as best I can. 

 

Potter tells me that they’re always looking for more aurors, but I politely decline.  I don’t think that is something I’m cut out for.  I’m not proud of it, but I know I’m a coward and I don’t have a thirst to prove myself otherwise in a dangerous field chasing dark wizards. 

 

Weasley and his sister point out that Quidditch tryouts will be happening in a few months but I don’t know that I’m good enough to play professionally.  I haven’t played as part of team since our Hogwarts days, only in two versus two matches around the grounds with my friends which was really just throwing a quaffle around. At that moment, I realize my prized broom is still at the manor and suddenly this entire situation seems that much worse. 

 

“We’ll find you something.”  Granger muses as she pops a chip in her mouth. Clearly, her mind is already mulling over the possibilities, despite the fact that this is probably only our second major conversation since she offered her hospitality. We barely exchanged words at breakfast.

 

After we finish the awkward lunch in which I feel completely out of place, I part ways with the pride of Gryffindors and wander down the street towards the shop Granger pointed out.  I cross the threshold through the glass doors and quickly find the men’s section.  An eager shop assistant helps me find a few things to my tastes and I’m out of there before things get too uncomfortable.  I end up with a few pairs of trousers, muggle jeans, t-shirts and flannels for sleeping in with polos, jumpers, and oxfords for daily use.  I also pick up a few sets of underthings and socks. 

 

After leaving the store, I make my way back through the streets until I find myself back at Granger’s front door.  I knock briefly before opening the door, just to let her know I’m back, but I find the house empty.  She must have gone somewhere else with her friends.  Her level of trust is a bit alarming that she is comfortable with me being in her home alone, but I’m trying not to question that or her hospitality. 

 

I quickly take out my new things and change into a pair of khaki pants with a soft, charcoal gray jumper and feel instantly better not to be in my clothes from two days ago.  I’ll have to ask Granger about how to launder them properly.  I store all of the clothing in the chest of drawers, moving the items currently stored there to the bottom most drawer.  My things barely take up two drawers but I feel proud that I’ve purchased them with my own money.

 

I wander down the hall and into Granger’s library where I flooed out of earlier.  Three of the four walls are lined with bookshelves though there is still plenty of space for new books.  They seemed to be organized by subject and then alphabetized by author.  I find the fiction section and pull out the first book in the series I caught Granger reading last night and sink down into a chair positioned near the only window in the room to lose myself in the adventure of a practical boy from a small farm in a far-away land who doesn’t yet know how important he is.

 

Several hours later, I set the book aside, marking the page with a scrap of parchment I find on her desk and wander downstairs.  She still isn’t back and I’m getting hungry so I decide to try my hand at finding something to eat.  I know I could always go out, but I shouldn’t spend more of money than I have to and I know there is food in this house.  I’ll probably need to reimburse Granger for groceries, but she and I can discuss that when she returns.  

 

As it stands, I’m hungry.

 

I find a cabinet filled with boxes of things with pictures of food, but I honestly have no idea how to turn what is in the boxes into something that is actually edible.  I end up settling for an apple from what I know to be a refrigerator thanks to the required Muggle Studies class I had to take in school.  In addition to laundry, I’ll have to ask Granger about preparing food as well. 

 

I’m feeling thoroughly useless in Hermione’s muggle home with my lack of training in even basic skills.  I should probably be thankful I know how to bathe myself at this point. 

 

Granger bounds in through the front door a few minutes later as I’m perched on a countertop eating an apple.  I probably would have sat at a time, but there’s something childlike in being perched on a counter.  I certainly never got to experience that in my childhood of etiquette and piano lessons.  Granger doesn’t seem fazed by it.

 

“Did you have dinner already?”  She asks me as she shrugs out of her coat, hanging it up on the coat rack.

 

I shake my head as I finish chewing the sweet fruit.  “No, pulling an apple from the refrigerator was about as much as I could manage.”  I feel my ears growing warm as I admit the fact that I don’t know how to fend for myself to the witch who is now leaning against the counter opposite of me.  “I don’t know the first thing about cooking, or laundry, or living on my own really.”

 

Anyone else would’ve taken that moment that take me down a peg, but not her.  She simply pushes back from the counter and walks around to near where I am setting.  “Well, no time like the present.”

 

I just look at her until she elaborates.  “Being able to feed yourself is pretty important.  Do you like spaghetti?”

 

I hop down off of the counter as she hands me an apron which is a garish purple color before tying one with a bright floral pattern around herself.

 

“I’m not wearing this.” I scowl as I look at the ugly apron.

 

“Then you’ll have to learn how to get sauce out of your clothing when it splatters all over that brand-new jumper of yours.” She says without even missing a beat as she starts pulling ingredients down from the cabinet.  

 

I mutter a curse under my breath and tie the apron around myself after charming it to be a simple, matte black color.  I see her standing on her toes trying to reach an item at the top of the shelf, so I stand behind her and grab it for her, realizing it’s a jar of red sauce.  Our fingers brush as she takes the jar form me with a muttered thank you.

 

“This is probably one of the easiest things to cook, especially if you buy sauce at the market instead of making it from scratch,” she says as she retrieves a pot from a lower cabinet before filling it with water. 

 

“Do you always cook the muggle way?” I ask, wondering why she didn’t just cast an _augamenti_ to fill the pot.

 

“I find it tastes better, so yes, I do.”  She points to a set of knobs at the top of the stove.  “These will turn the heat on, the higher the number, the hotter the coils.”  She turns one of them to a fairly high heat and sets the pot of water on that particular place on the stove.  I find it odd that there is no fire, but who am I to question muggle inventions?

 

“First, we have to boil the water so we can cook the pasta.”  She sounds just like a teacher as she instructs me on how to make the dish as we wait for the water to boil. I’m a little surprised she works for the Ministry and not for Hogwarts of one of the other wizarding schools around the United Kingdom.

 

When the water boils, she hands me the box of pasta and instructs me on how to add it to the boiling water without burning myself.  I’m successful, though I’m sure I look like an absolute fool while I do it. Granger hides her smile behind her hand – I’m not certain if she’s proud of me or if she thinks this entire ordeal is hilarious.  Probably the latter.

 

She talks me through how to stir the pasta, which isn’t much different from stirring a cauldron and how to check if it cooked through while she puts a pan on the stove to heat the sauce.  It takes our combined efforts to get the lid off of the jar and this time she let’s me turn the stove on to an appropriate temperature and pour the sauce in the pan.  She’s right about needing he apron, a bit splattered when I poured it.

 

Smart witch. 

 

As the sauce heats, we both taste it and she decides it’s a bit bland, so we add a bit of garlic, salt, and pepper which greatly improves the flavor.  When the pasta is at an acceptable texture, the water is poured and she walks me through how to mix the pasta with the sauce.

 

She’s practically beaming and very nearly looks like she’s about to start jumping up and down.  “You did it, Draco!”  She cries as I spoon the spaghetti into bowls for each of us as she cuts off a few pieces of bread from a rather crusty loaf. 

 

I smile for the first time in days, feeling completely proud of myself for the first time in recent memory.  “I couldn’t have done it without you.”  I say honestly.  It’s completely true.  I would be doomed to a life of raw vegetables and fruit, and perhaps a bit of bread or sandwiches without this witch.

 

Two days and I am deeper in her debt.

 

She simply laughs off my sincerity as she pulls a tub of butter from the fridge.  “You’ve always been smart, Draco.  I imagine you would’ve figured it out eventually, though you probably would’ve grown tired of apples by then.” 

 

We enjoy a quiet meal at the table, making small talk and I’m slowly growing more comfortable with my housemate, though how long I’m staying I still don’t know.  When we are finished with our meal, she teaches me how to wash dishes by hand and promises to show me how to use the automated dishwasher another day.

 

I am still completely and utterly nervous about being on my own when I finally head to bed, but I feel a little less alone and a little more confident that I might just make it after all.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Before I know it, two weeks pass but I am still no closer to figuring out what I want to do with my life. The one positive is that Granger and I have fallen into a rather domestic routine.  During the week, she goes to work and I at least make an attempt to keep the house tidy, as task I am slowly becoming more comfortable with.  I now know how to launder my own clothes and hang them to dry, though I’ll admit to using a spell to dry them at times.  I can cook a few simple dishes and am able to adequately clean up after I have done so. 

 

Tomorrow, we are going to the market and she’s going to show me how to purchase items the muggle way. 

 

I’m am slowly starting to feel more comfortable around Granger.  Instead of mostly silence at meals, we engage in small talk.  I don’t usually have much to say about my day but that doesn’t stop her from giving me a summary of the entire eight hours she works.  She mostly works by herself but occasionally delegates tasks to others in her department.  Beyond that, she is able to secure international portkeys within a matter of minutes for research purposes, though she had admitted to travelling once or twice just to have lunch in an exotic locale under the guise of research purposes.

 

I knew she was a rule breaker, especially after I caught her and her friends with the illegal dragon back in first year, but I’m impressed with her ability to not get caught.  Perhaps she was wasted in Gryffindor.

 

I’m reminded of how brilliant she is when she tells me that she’s no longer on assignment for the Department of Experimental Charms but that she’s been contracted by the Department of Mysteries for the next two months to research a topic she’s unable to discuss.  I’ve always heard the Unspeakables only work within their own department and never with others, but perhaps everyone wants a piece of the brilliant mind of one Hermione Granger. 

 

I come across Granger’s collection of cauldrons when I am looking for a pot in the kitchen and I stop what I’m doing and go check her potion stores in the lavatory.  With winter raging out of doors, it’s important to have a few remedies on hands for common illnesses.  I notice that she’s nearly out of Pepper-up and could use a new tub of burn paste as well as a few more vials of calming draught.

 

After making a short list of everything I might need, I don my coat and floo into Diagon Alley.  The prospect of doing something useful, even if it is brewing a few simple potions as a way of thanking Granger for everything she’s done for me gives me a sense of purpose I’m not sure I’ve felt before.

 

I ignore the typical stares and muttered comments as I make my way to the apothecary shop on a side street deep in the alley.  I’ve been coming here for years since the ingredients are often cheaper and of better quality than those found in the more commercial shops along the Alley’s most prominent avenue. 

 

I push the door to the small shop open and find that it doesn’t appear as tidy and well stocked as I remember.  There is a layer of dust along the floor as while some of the glass jars holding items such as boomslang skin, fire seeds, and flobberworm mucus look as though they haven’t been cleaned in ages – the labels are barely visible.

 

I walk towards the counter and find Dermot Cavendish, proprietor of this rather untidy shop slumped over and asleep.  Several cauldrons bubble and gurgle behind him and my eyes widen as I see the dangerous blue sheen atop one rather large pewter cauldron. The acrid smell in the air registers and before I can even wake the man up, I vanish the contents of the cauldron. 

 

Pressing my hand against the old man’s shoulder, I shake him awake.  He groans and blinks at me with confused eyes.

 

“Oh!  Young Lord Malfoy, what can I do for you today?” He rubs the sleep from his eyes and the bones in his back crack as he manages to sit upright.

 

“You can thank me for one, Cavendish.  Your cauldron of calming draught was about to go horribly wrong.”  I say, motioning to the cauldron behind him. Had I not intervened he would’ve been severely burned from the explosion of the potion, not to mention the shop may have very well caught on fire.

 

He turns his head to look at the vanished contents of the cauldron, the acrid smell still in the air.  “Must’ve fallen asleep and forgotten to add the fluxweed oil.  I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.” 

 

I suddenly realize who’s missing.  “Where’s your son, Mr. Cavendish?” Every time I’ve come into the shop, his son was always there too, keeping things tidy, running the till, and restocking ingredients while the master potioneer brewed in the back room.  The appearance of the cauldrons behind the counter makes more sense now as well.

 

“Ran off and got married, he did.  Moved to the states with that American chit he’d been courting for years.”  There’s a sad expression on his face as he talks about his son’s departure.

 

“Is there anyone to help you run the shop?” I ask, looking around it once more.  His son must have run off to the states several months ago given the state of the shop.

 

His back straightens and I can tell he’s too prideful to admit that he’s overwhelmed.  “I do just fine on my own, thank you young Malfoy.”

 

I take a basket from the counter to gather the items I’ll need to brew the potions for Granger and incline my head politely towards old Mr. Cavendish.  “I understand, sir, but should you find yourself in need of some help around the shop, I would be more than happy to oblige.”

 

I don’t wait for him to respond and instead begin to gather the various ingredients I need, making a note that he’s out of a particular type of seed that is needed for burn paste.  I’ll have to stop by one of the other apothecaries on my way back.  I find it relaxing to wander the aisles of this shop, perusing ingredients, tinctures, and solutions.  Perhaps I could be happy being a potioneer, it’s the best idea I’ve come up with so far.  I know that my funds will only keep me for a few months, but I would rather not deplete them to that extent unless absolutely necessary.

 

When I place my basket on the counter, the proprietor gives me a discerning stare as though he’s attempting to come to some sort of decision about me. “I couldn’t pay you much.” 

 

“I would be grateful for the experience, though I fear a wage, even if it is a small one, is necessary given my… circumstances.”   The fact that I have been cast out, thankfully, hasn’t become common knowledge to the rest of the wizarding world, but Cavendish seems to understand what I mean when I talk about my circumstances.

 

He punches the prices of the items into the till with surprising speed.  His fingers must be the only nimble part about him because he looks as though he might keel over at any moment.  He gives me my total and I had over several galleons while he takes care to package the items I’ve selected. 

 

“You did pass your N.E.W.T.s, yes?”  He asks, almost as an afterthought as he passes my parcel across the counter.

 

“I received an Oustanding in Potions, Herbology, Charms, Defense, Arithmancy, and Transfiguration, sir.  Exceeds Expectations in Alchemy, Runes, and Divination.”  I’m fairly certain that Granger is one of only three witches and wizards to ever receive perfect scores in all of her N.E.W.T.s, but I didn’t do too badly myself.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine, boy.”  He says, without even batting an eye at the scores I’ve listed. With that one word our roles are instantly changed.  I am no longer “young Lord Malfoy” in his eyes, but simply a shop boy.

 

“Yes, sir.”  I say with a polite incline of my head. 

 

I wait until the wooden door to the shop closes behind me before I allow myself a smile.  A month ago I would’ve balked at the prospect of getting my hands dirty with any sort of menial work such as tending to a shop, but now I feel proud of myself.  With any luck, I can learn a trade in a field that always held my attention in school.  Having the tutelage of my Godfather certainly helped me be proficient in brewing the potions required for school.

 

I stop by one of the larger apothecaries on my way out of the Alley to pick up the seeds I need for the burn paste before flooing back to Granger’s house.  I set up a small brewing station near the hearth in the living room and relax into the motions of brewing the Pepper-Up potion first. Once I’ve added the powdered bicorn horn, I leave it to simmer and fix myself a sandwich and some crisps for a late lunch.  I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I took the first bite and from there I practically inhale my food.  It makes me feel a bit too like Weasley, but I suppose he doesn’t seem as bad as I remembered. 

 

As I’m carefully pouring the potion I’ve made into a set of glass vials, I hear Granger floo in upstairs.  I check the clock on the wall and realize that the majority of my day has been taken up by brewing potions and I’m surprised with the speech in which it has passed.

 

She bounds down the stairs and I wonder if she ever actually walks anywhere calmly.  She always seems to be rushing around, even if it’s in her own home. 

 

“Oh my.  You’ve been busy today.”  She says as she looks over the brewing station I’ve set up in the living room. 

 

She sheds her coat and hangs it up near the door before coming over and looking thoughtfully at one of the carefully labeled vials. 

 

“I found the cauldrons and noticed some of your potion stores were running low, so I took the liberty of purchasing what was needed to restock them.”

 

“That was very kind of you.”  She remarks, stepping closer to the cauldron bubbling away with what will eventually be a calming draught once I give it a few stirs and add the final ingredient.

 

“I wanted to find a way to repay your kindness.”  I say honestly, dipping a glass stirring rod into the cauldron and starting to count in my mind. 

 

She waits until I’m finished before speaking again. Smart witch.  Many a potion has been ruined by losing count of the precise number of clockwise and anti-clockwise stirs which are needed at critical stages of the potion’s development. 

 

“How was your trip into the Alley?”  She asks, knowing that it’s something I don’t always feel comfortable with.

 

“Very profitable.  I’ve managed to secure myself employment with the possibility of an apprenticeship.”  At least, I assume that is what Mr. Cavendish was alluding to when he offered me the position. 

 

Her eyes light up when I give her my news and I find I can’t hide my prideful smile.  “Really?  Draco that’s wonderful!  You must tell me all about it.”  She sinks down into the wingback chair near the hearth and curls her feet up under her.  I haven’t seen her look so intrigued by something since we were in school. 

 

“I start tomorrow at nine.  I’ll be working for Mr. Cavendish in his shop since his son moved to America.  It’s an…”

 

“Apothecary, I know.  I always go to him for falcon feathers, jellyfish slime, and stinging nettle.  The quality is…”

 

“So much better,” we say in unison which results in a somewhat awkward laugh.  Never in my life did I think I would ever get along with Granger but she’s easy enough to live with, at least after a week.  She’s quiet and keeps to herself much of the time.  While I love my own friends, I’m certain they would be up in my business and bothering me to go out to the latest club so I can find a witch, or even possibly encouraging me to do what my family expects of me.  It’s as if she holds no expectations of me, and I find that rather refreshing. 

 

She gets one of those thoughtful expressions on her face. “I didn’t realize Hamish had moved to America. What will you be doing for Mr. Cavendish?”

 

“Taking care of the shop, I assume.  It’s fallen into disrepair since his son left.” I gingerly add the mandrake root to the potion and it takes on the familiar sheen.  I bank the flames and leave it to marinate for the next twenty minutes before it’s due to be removed from the fire. 

 

“Not brewing?” She asks, her head resting in her hand.

 

“Probably not at first.  It’s not much, but at least it’s something,” I shrug my shoulders.  I hope to be able to learn from the potion master at some point, but I’m obviously going to have to earn my place.  All apprenticeships start with menial tasks, though he hasn’t formally agreed to even take me on as an apprentice.  I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that I’ll need to probably work harder than I ever have in my life.

 

I’m apprehensive, but I think I might enjoy menial shop labor to sitting in endless meetings in uncomfortable suits hearing about finances.

 

“I think it’s wonderful, Draco.”  She says with a wide grin, staring up at me with her big brown eyes.  “We should celebrate!”

 

“What do you propose?” I ask, leaning back against the wall next to the hearth, crossing my arms over my chest.

 

“We could always pop down to the pub or go somewhere to eat.  It wouldn’t have to be just us, we could invite the others.  Harry’s been asking me about you when I see him during lunch and Ron will go anywhere as long as there is food.”

 

It’s not surprising their relationship didn’t last.  She talks about the redhead weasel as though her were her brother and I’ve certain never seen the two of them look at each other the way Potter looks at Weasley’s sister.  Granted, I’ve only been around all them the one time.

 

I raise one of my eyebrows in disbelief.  “Potter has been inquiring after my health?”

 

“Is that so surprising?” She asks, though she looks nervous now.  Her eyes keep darting anywhere but at mine.

 

“Given our history, yes.” 

 

She finally makes eye contact again, though it’s coupled with a disapproving frown. “I thought we agreed to leave the past in the past.”

 

I feel my shoulders slump forward and I push off of the wall, shoving my hands in the pockets of my trousers as I start to pace around the living room in slow, lazy steps.

 

“It’s easier said than done, Granger, but I’m giving it my best.  These past two weeks have been unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced and sometimes it’s easier to cling to what is familiar, you know?”

 

She stands up from the chair and stops my pacing by placing a hand on my arm.  “Hey,” she says, inching closer to me as I refuse to meet her eyes.  “I’m proud of you, Draco.  I know it’s been ridiculously hard for you, but look at all you’ve accomplished.” 

 

I think this is the first moment I realize that I may have managed to become something close to friends with this witch.  It still isn’t as easy to be around her as it is to be around my friends, but I’ve known them since I was in nappies.  She’s treating me exactly as she would treat any of her other friends and it’s almost more difficult to take in than the fact that my family disowned me.

 

“Thanks, Granger.”  I manage to mutter, though I keep my eyes downcast.

 

I see her glance at the clock when I finally get the courage to look back up.  “When will the calming draught be finished?”  She asks, stepping away from me to peer into the cauldron.

 

“Ten minutes.”  I say, checking the time.

 

“Great.  Don’t start on the burn paste.”  She must see me staring at her incredulously because she gives me a playful scolding with an erratic wave of her hand.  “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Malfoy.  I know the ingredients for burn paste when I see them.”

 

“I’ll go floo the others and we’ll go get something to eat to celebrate in about thirty, yeah?”  She says, though she’s already started towards the stairs.  Apparently, she’s made the decision for us that she’s inviting the pride of Gryffindors to celebrate. I wonder why she’s so keen on my being part of their little tribe.

 

“Yeah,” I affirm though I doubt she heard me because she’s already half way upstairs.  I can’t help but notice the way her hips sway in the dress she wore to work today.  She’s definitely grown into an attractive witch, that is something that didn’t manage to change when I went from drunk to sober.  When she’s not all done up for a date she exudes a natural beauty that is rather wholesome.

 

I push the thoughts of Granger out of my mind and check the clock again before I start gathering the glass vials I’ve labeled for the calming draught.

 

………

 

Seven of us end up at a restaurant in the heart of Diagon Alley and I can only imagine that there will be several speculative headlines in tomorrow’s copy of the Daily Prophet.  In addition to Granger, Potter, Weasley, and Weasley’s sister, I also get to subjected to Longbottom and Looney Lovegood. 

 

Subjected isn’t’ a good word since I’m actually trying to play nice with these people.  I have to say it’s significantly less awkward than the first time I went to lunch with the Golden Trio, especially after everyone has had a bit of wine.  It certainly helps me to not feel quite so awkward around the group.

 

I really should start trying to get on a first-name basis with these people, but I still wonder if it is too soon.  The only one I’ve been around with any sort of regularity is Gr- Hermione.  I force myself to use her given name, even if it’s only within the confines of my mind. 

 

We’re spread out around a large round table and I catch Lovegood staring at me from across the table and I just pray she doesn’t say anything about magical creatures that only seem to exist in the confines of her mind. 

 

“You’re different now.”  Leave it to Lovegood to be blunt about it. 

 

“Thank you?”  I question.  I really don’t know how to respond to the former Ravenclaw. 

 

“She’s right, mate.”  Since when does Ronald Weasley call me _mate?_   Has everyone had more alcohol than I realized? Did I slip into a parallel universe when I wasn’t looking?  Am I in a coma somewhere and this is what my injured brain has managed to dream up?

 

I think Granger senses my disbelief, but I doubt she knows that I’m ruminating over the fact that Ronald Weasley referred to me as _mate_ rather than Lovegood insinuating that I’m not the git I used to be.  I know for a fact I’m not.  I think I’m starting to find out exactly who I want to be, though.

 

“Draco has been doing absolutely splendidly for the past two weeks adjusting to a life I’m sure he never expected to lead and we’re here tonight to celebrate another major accomplishment.  He’s managed to find himself a job in one of the better Apothecaries in Diagon Alley and will be starting tomorrow.” 

  


To my complete surprise, everyone lifts their glass and I hear cheers of congratulations and well done.  Potter even claps me on the back, though I’ll admit I was a little apprehensive when we were sat next to one another.

 

I manage a smile but I can feel everything growing warm and I think the room starts spinning as blood seems to rush to my ears.  I stand up and abruptly excuse myself, grabbing my coat on the way.  I pass through the doors we entered through and into the cold winter air.  It hits me like a double-decker bus and it takes me a moment to catch my breath.  I trudge through the slow across the street to a wooden bench and sit down, trying to calm my racing heart.

 

I bend over, resting my head in my hands and just take a minute to breathe through the panic that has managed to consume me.  I start running through the facts in my head hoping that will help me feel less overwhelmed.

 

My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy.  I am twenty-five years old.  I am the only child of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black.  Up until two weeks ago, I lived at Malfoy Manor.

 

I vaguely register the crunch of shoes on the snow as the wind continues to blow, but I don’t bother to pull my coat around me more closely.

 

I was disowned by my father and forced out of my home for refusing to sign a marriage contract which would irreversibly bind me to Astoria Greengrass.  My mother turned her back on me and supported my father’s decision. 

 

I feel the wood of the bench sink slightly under the weight of another, but I ignore it.

 

I met Hermione Granger in a bar two weeks ago and am now living in her house.  I was cut off completely from the Malfoy vaults and all I have on which to survive is that which I earn myself when the funds in my personal vault run out. 

 

I feel something heavy settle on my shoulders and I only realize it’s an arm when I feel small fingers stroking along my shoulder. 

 

I’ve learned how to cook a few things, do my own laundry, use basic cleaning spells, and do dishes the muggle way.  As of today, I’ve secured myself a position with a possible apprenticeship if I can prove I’m worth my salt.

 

The feelings of worthlessness hang over my head like a dark cloud.  I’m ashamed at how much I relied on my family and our wealth up until this point.  I look to my left and see that it’s Hermione who has joined me on the bench.  

 

In the past two weeks, I’ve managed to become somewhat friends with Granger.  She says she’s forgiven me and has even managed to get Potter and Weasley to be polite, rather than sending hexes my way. 

 

She just looks at me with her pretty brown eyes and a softened expression as I’m having a moment of weakness in a very public place.  It is the most un-Malfoy thing to do… but I’m no longer considered a Malfoy anymore, am I?

 

“Why?”  I ask after casting my eyes back towards the snow-covered pavement.  The snow must have started falling again because I can feel the delicate flakes landing on my neck and hair.

 

“Everyone deserves a second chance, Draco.”  I can feel her breath on my ear and I realize that she has to be pressed against me to even come close to wrapping an arm around my shoulders. How can she be so forgiving? How can she forgive me for all of the wrongs I have committed in my past when I cannot forgive myself?

 

“I don’t.” 

 

“You are included in the collective everyone.  We were kids who were forced to do what we thought was right at the time.”  She presses a gloved hand against my cheek and turns my face as if to force me to look at her.  I refuse to meet her eyes, instead I stare at the buttons of her coat.  They’re delicate, round things and there are entirely too many of them to be practical on a coat.

 

“Draco, please look at me.”  She pleads dipping her head down to try and catch my eyes. I reluctantly force myself to look at her.  How can her eyes hold so much warmth?  I feel the urge to kiss the moment our eyes her but immediately squash that thought.  Who am I kidding?  The best I could ever hope for with someone like her is friendship.  I don’t deserve someone like her.  I probably deserve to be trapped in that loveless marriage that got me into this mess in the first place.

 

Her expression seems to relax as I finally look her in the eye. “It’s okay to feel like this.  It’s okay to be overwhelmed and completely unsure of how to move on with your life when you’re dealt a hard blow.  This is completely normal, but we’re all here to support you through it.”

 

I can’t help myself when I snort at the thought of a handful of Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw having my back when I haven’t even managed to tell my own friends about my predicament.

 

She nudges my arm and laughs.  “I mean it.  I know we’re nothing like what you’re used to.  We’re a brash, loud, and ridiculous bunch, but you’re one of us now.  Harry, Neville, and I are practically orphans, Ron and Ginny lost a brother, and Luna lost her mother.  We’ve all lost friends and suffered more than we care to admit with everything that happened in the war.  We stick by our own and we’ve chosen you.”

 

I honestly don’t know what to say and apparently she’s perfectly fine with my lack of a response. She continues to rub her gloved hand over my arm as the snow falls around us.  I draw a deep breath, the cold winter air assaulting my lungs, and turn to face her once more. 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

“If you really want to thank me, can we go back inside now?  I think I’m about to turn into an ice lolly.”

 

That manages to get me to at least smile and I nod.  As we cross the street, I place my hand at the small of her back and hold the door open for the witch who has completely turned my world upside down.  Without her, it’s highly likely I would still be wallowing in scotching a bar somewhere. 

 

I’ve always heard the saying that when one door closes, another one opens.  Well, apparently when the door to the entire life I’ve known closed in my face, the gods saw fit to send me Hermione Granger, champion of the downtrodden who shoved me through a door into what feels like an alternate reality.  Or maybe it’s truly a chance to start over. 

 

One day at a time, right?

 


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning dawned bright and clear with the sun shining over the snowy landscape.  I took a moment to gaze out of the window in the kitchen and into the small garden at the back of the house while I sipped my coffee.  Hermione was in her customary chair, eating a piece of toast while perusing the Daily Prophet. 

 

I wasn’t expecting the high-pitched squeak form the normally calm witch but she nearly fell out of her chair when it happened. 

 

“What’s the matter with you?”  I asked, taking a sip of my coffee.  She waved her hand at me and pushed her face so close to the Prophet that I’m not even certain she could read the words being that close to the print. 

 

She sits back and shoves the paper away from her with a disgusted grunt.  “I hate that vile woman.”  She mutters to herself before shoving the rest of her toast in her mouth.  Granted it wasn’t a large piece, but I still find it humorous.  She almost resembles a chipmunk with the way her cheeks are filled with toast and I can’t help but try to stifle my laughter.

 

She turns her head and glares at me so I come away from the window and lean over her shoulder to look at what has gotten her so irritated. 

 

I’m fairly certain the world stops spinning for one full second before it restarts or perhaps it’s just me.

 

There, emblazoned in grayscale is a photograph of the pair of us sitting on that wooden bench across from the restaurant.  Her arm is positioned around my shoulder and her hand comes up to rest on my cheek, turning my head to look at her.  She appears to whisper something in my ear and a tiny smile I never knew about from the previous evening crosses my lips.  The photograph restarts itself at that point and the sequence begins again. 

 

We look like a pair of lovers sharing a private moment on a snowy evening.  The headline insinuates nothing less, though the article below it says some very unflattering things about me and even offers a few speculations about when our relationship began and even hints that my mother is pleased with the union.  It’s all a load of crap. 

 

“Do I need to worry about Potter and Weasley?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away as the photograph moves through another cycle.  It’s almost as if… no of course not.

 

Her fingers are tangled in her curls while she mutters something under her breath and I hear her yelp as she turns around too quickly to face me.  “What?”  She says as she attempts to extricate her fingers from her tangled curls.

 

I point to the photograph in the Prophet, letting her make her own assumptions as to what I’m implying.  “Oh, of course not.”

 

“Then why are you so upset?” I probe, taking another sip of my coffee and trying not to jump to conclusions.  If she’s not upset about the way we’re portrayed, what on earth could she be upset about?

 

Granger almost pouts. “She said awful things about you.”  I’m a little relieved at the fact that she’s not upset that we’re insinuated to be lovers.  I’m starting to get used to having Gryffindor’s Princess attempting to defend me at every turn, but it’s still quite strange that she’s angry because I was painted in an unflattering light by a notoriously unscrupulous journalist. Does anyone even take what Rita Skeeter says at face value anymore?

 

“Nothing she said was untrue, Hermione.”  She knows I’m right and I’m pleased that she at least doesn’t try to argue with me.  She simply rests her head in her hand with a frown and looks down at the article again, though I can’t tell whether her eyes are on the photograph or on the text.

 

I gently squeeze her shoulder before rinsing my coffee cup out in the sink.  When I make it to my room I dress in all black and pull on one of the sets of robes I ordered.  My new employer and I never discussed a uniform, but I think I look rather sharp for my first day.  My clothing is lightweight and practical and knowing that I’ll likely be scrubbing the shop from top to bottom today, I’ve charmed it to be resistant to dust and liquids.

 

Hermione is still sitting at the table when I shrug on my coat.  It looks a bit strange atop my robes, but I didn’t think to purchase a warm, winter cloak.  I would much rather be warm, than cold, so I think I can handle looking a little foolish for the moment.  I doubt I’ll garner more stares than usual.

 

“I’m off.”  I say with a wave of my hand.  I can only imagine how nervous I appear, but the witch at the breakfast table just smiles at me and it helps me feel more sure about myself. 

 

“I want to hear all about it when you get home.” 

 

Home.  What a novel concept.

 

……….

 

I push open the doors at precisely five ‘til nine and find my new employer bent over a cauldron.  By the steady flick of his wrist, I can tell he’s counting the number of stirs and I think it best not to bother until he’s past such a critical stage.  I know as well as anyone that it’s easy to lose count when stirring if you’re not careful.  There are only a handful of Master Potioneers in existence who no longer have to count their stirs, my late Godfather being one of them. 

 

Once he removes the stirring rod from the cauldron, I clear my throat and greet him with a simple good morning. 

 

He nods in his own greeting and passes me an apron from behind the counter which I quickly tie around myself after hanging my coat on the rack near the door.  “I trust you’re smart enough to figure out what needs doing?”  He asks as he turns back to one of the potions behind the counter and carefully measures out three drops of a ruby red liquid into one of them. 

 

“I believe I can manage, sir.” I say, looking around the dusty shop, fully intending to start with the floors.  “Please let me know if anything I do is not to your satisfaction.” 

 

“Very well, then.  The more volatile materials are along the back wall.  Don’t use magic back there if you can help it, especially if you value your eyebrows.”  He gives a coarse laugh and I suspect he knows from experience. 

 

“Of course, Mr. Cavendish.”

 

I start with the floors and soon learn that dust is a fickle beast.  While Hermione has taught me a few rudimentary cleaning spells, it does little to siphon off the layers of dust and grime from what I now think is years, rather than months of neglect.  I find myself cursing his son for the lack of care to the shop.  Eventually, I find a broom in the back room of the shop and start making more headway than I was with the charms I was using.

 

Every so often, I pause in my cleaning to help a witch or wizard locate a particular herb, root, or tincture.  A few completely ignore my presence, but there are several who are grateful for the assistance.  While I’m not certain I’m very helpful, it makes it easier for me to learn where items are stored around the shop.  They don’t appear to be organized by any particular system I can recognize, but I’m certain my employer could find each item with his eyes obscured while having been spun around several times.  I don’t dare to think to change his system but simply try and learn it as best I can.

 

Once I am fairly certain I’ve removed the bulk of the dust from one of the narrow rows of shelving, I bewitch a sponge to follow behind me as I cast an aguamenti spell and soon the floors start to take on the color of the dark, rich wood I remember, rather than the faded gray they have been.  I make a mental note to personally thank each one of the manor’s house elves if I’m ever given the chance when I have to cease mopping by magic and actually get down on my hands and knees once I reach the back wall.

 

It takes several buckets of water and my sleeves are rolled to my elbows while a sheen of sweat coats my brow, but eventually, the part of the floor I’ve been working on gleams.

 

By the time the lunch hour rolls around, I’ve only managed to complete the floors on two of the eight or so narrow rows.  My anti-dust charms seem to be wearing thin and my shirt is sticking to me thanks to a layer of sweat, despite the freezing temperatures outside.  I’ve never done so much manual labor in my life; even the detentions at Hogwarts weren’t this taxing.

 

At this point, my employer steps away from his cauldrons and looks approvingly at the two rows I’ve done and sends me out to not only fetch lunch, but also to deliver a crate of potions to a private healer down the street.

 

By the time I locate the healer and deliver the potions, only to be handed another order, I barely have enough time to grab a sandwich from a nearby deli before I’m due back. I’m suddenly thankful that sandwiches are portable because I was able to eat it on my way back to the apothecary.  I’m certain my mother would hex me black and blue for walking down the street eating a sandwich if she were to see me, but I remind myself that she made her decision when she sided with my father.

 

Upon entering the shop, I vanish the left-over remnants of my meal and hand over the new order to my employer before donning my apron once more and starting on row number three.  I have a feeling it will take me a few days to get the floors to a state where they can be fully maintained.  I may have already swept and waxed, but there’s already another fine layer of dust covering the two rows I’ve already done and I suspect that it’s filtering down from the shelves and I curse myself for not thinking to start there. 

 

I have a feeling that by the end of my shift, all I’m going to want to do is fall asleep.  I’ll be surprised if I can move when I wake up tomorrow and it reminds me of how thoroughly out of shape I am.  I’ve done nothing but laze around Granger’s house and before that, the manor.  Flying is wonderful and all, but I’ve done nothing to maintain my physique since I was in school without the rigorous training that being part of a Quidditch team requires.  I’m probably lucky I’m still somewhat fit as much as I enjoy sweets, though I know I’ve got a bit soft. 

 

I make a mental note to find a way to exercise because I’m thoroughly embarrassed to be huffing and puffing as much as I am from a little cleaning.  Theo always begged me to go running with him in the mornings while we were at school, perhaps that could be a possibility.

 

I manage to finish the floors of two more rows by the time Mr. Cavendish says it’s time to lock up.  He congratulates me on the work I’ve accomplished on my first day and says he’d never seen his own son work so hard.  I can’t help but preen with his praise.

 

“I’ve learned not to take things in life for granted, any longer, Mr. Cavendish.  I am grateful for the opportunity.”

 

“You’ll do just fine, young Malfoy.”  He says before dismissing me for the evening.  I’m grateful to have earned his seal of approval and feel quite proud of myself for managing well my first day.  As I walk towards the Leakey Cauldron in order to floo back to Granger’s house I don’t even notice the stares and whispers like I usually would.  Perhaps there are less than normal, or perhaps I’m completely unrecognizable covered in what I suspect to be a rather prolific layer of dust. 

 

I’ll need to practice those cleaning charms when I get home. 

 

Home.  There’s that word again. 

 

………

 

“Hey, welcome back.  How was… Oh good heavens, you look frightful.”  Hermione closes her book and stares at me, her big brown eyes dragging over me from the top of my head to the lackluster gleam of my shoes and back again.  I’m not sure I can effectively explain the look on her face.

 

“I could use a shower.”  I mumble, shrugging off my coat and attempting to siphon off some of the dust that has managed to cling to it from my debris covered clothing.  I was tempted to not even wear it home, but it was too cold out to consider it.

 

Granger manages to stifle a giggle. “Your hair almost looks brown.” She says as she pops up from the couch and struggles to maintain her balance like some sort of newborn colt.  I wonder if she’s been drinking, but I see no nearby glass of wine or whiskey.  Is she always this clumsy?

 

She pries my coat from my hands, our fingers brushing as she does so.  “Go shower and change.  I’ll take care of this.”

 

I’m still stunned into silence quite frequently by the witch and her seemingly selfless acts.  She turns those big, brown eyes on me and I’m helpless but to do what she says.  She’s taught me so much in a few short weeks and I wonder if this is how Potter and Weasley feel about the witch.  I love my own friends, but there’s something so completely different about being friends with Granger. 

 

I’m used to those with similar dispositions as my own given that the majority of my friends were in my house at school, though according to Granger I’ve been accepted into her little fold of orphans and those who know loss all too intimately.  That’s probably not a good name to call her hodgepodge of friends.  My friends.  I’m still trying to come to terms with that. 

 

I think I’ll stick with the term acquaintances until I’ve spent more time with them.

 

I give the witch in question a nod of understanding and a muttered “thanks” before I make my way up the stairs and into the small lavatory to wash away the day’s dirt and grime from my body.  The hot water cascades over me and I enjoy the quiet solitude it provides knowing the witch downstairs is probably planning to drag me out for another dinner or has something else planned to celebrate my first official day as a member of the workforce. 

 

I’m not certain I’ve ever truly been able to say that before now.  Wearing a suit and drinking a glass of Ogden’s while listening to my father’s business partners drone on about profit and loss doesn’t hold a candle to scrubbing floors with and without magic.

 

I wrap one of the softer towels from the linen cupboard around my aching body and tread off to my rooms to find something to wear.  Pulling on a pair of khaki colored trousers and a blue jumper, I check my appearance in the mirror.  My hair is sticking up at all angles, though I have it styled with a wave of my wand before I trot back downstairs.  I feel almost human again after my shower.

 

Sure enough, I’m greeted by the sight of not only Granger but also Potter and Weasley when I wander into the kitchen.  Potter is holding a dark amber glass bottle filled with what I can only assume is some form of muggle alcohol while Weasley sips on a butterbeer.  Granger is busy bustling around the kitchen evidently preparing enough food to feed a small army, though there are only the four of us here. 

 

While Potter and Weasley seem content to perch themselves against the counter as they discuss the most recent Quidditch match between the Falcons and the Kestrels, I find myself averse to standing idle.  But, before I can pick up the serrated knife to cut into the loaf of sourdough Granger has set out, she shoves an amber bottle into my hands and shoos me out of the kitchen with a stern look and a command to relax.

 

The corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk, though I do pop the top off of the bottle.  This witch is something else. 

 

“I’m just saying that if Ellingham wouldn’t take three shots for luck before each game, the Falcon’s chance at winning might be just a bit better.”  Harry said to a red-faced Ron.

 

“Everyone takes a good luck shot before the game.”  Ron protests.  “It’s a well-known Quidditch tradition, Harry.”

 

“What’s he shooting?” I ask, before taking a swig of whatever is in the bottle.

 

“Thunderbird Rum.” Weasley offers with a shrug of his shoulders as though it weren’t one of the most potent alcohols in the wizarding world.  I’m fairly certain two shots would render a Thestral catatonic, let alone a chaser for the Falcons.

 

I force myself to swallow the bitter liquid before I’m tempted to spit it back into the bottle.  “What is this swill?”  I ask with what I know is a disgusted look on my face, raising the offensive bottle towards the light as if that would help me get a better grasp of the contents.

 

Potter and Weasley both laugh at my reaction to the offensive beverage.  “Beer.”  Potter says, taking a long drink of his as though it were water. 

 

“It tastes like Hippogriff piss.”  I say before invading Hermione’s kitchen again to pour it down the sink.  “How can you drink this?” I ask the pair of Gryffindors who are still laughing at me.

 

“I think the better question is how do you know what Hippogriff piss tastes like, Malfoy.”  Weasley quips and I honestly feel a little proud of his quick wit.  I don’t think anyone has ever even considered the words “Weasley”, “wit”, and “proud” in the same sentence before.  I’m certain I must be the first.

 

I roll my eyes and uncork a bottle of red wine after tossing the glass bottle in the bin, ignoring the pair of them as they continue their argument about Quidditch.  I pour a glass for myself and for Granger who has pulled something from the oven with an inordinate amount of cheese on the top and what appears to be a red sauce. 

 

It smells absolutely heavenly.

 

With a smile, she takes the glass from my hand and lifts it to her lips.  “Thank you.” 

 

“My pleasure.” I say as I lean against the counter feeling strangely content in this moment of domesticity. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

 

She shakes her head causing her curls to bounce before slicing into the loaf of sourdough from earlier.  “Nope.  This is the last bit of it.” 

 

She shakes her head again in an attempt to shift her wild curls away from her face as she slices the bread into tidy slices.  It reminds me of the precision required for preparing reagents for potions. 

 

I reach over and tuck a few stray curls behind one of her ears without giving a thought to the intimacy of the act until a moment later when my brain catches up realizing I’ve never seen Potter or Weasley do anything of the sort near her.  Hugs, pats on the arm, hand holding… sure.  Touching her hair? Never.  I’ve never even done it to Pansy.  

 

“Sorry.”  I mutter, pulling my hand back quickly, though I feel the ears and the back of my neck growing warm.

 

“It’s fine.”  She says brushing it off, though I can see a pretty blush chasing its way across her cheeks.

 

I’m thankful that Potter and Weasley seem none the wiser about the exchange which just occurred between their best friend and the former Death Eater residing in her home. The last thing I need is two wands drawn on me for trying to be helpful. 

 

At least, that’s what I tell myself.  I certainly don’t tell myself I wanted to know how soft and silky her curls felt as they wrapped around my finger.

 

Nope.  I was simply being helpful.

 

“Oi, Malfoy.”  Weasley calls out, grabbing my attention away from watching Hermione butter the bread while I sip my wine, telling myself the exact opposite of what my intentions were within the confines of my mind.

 

I turn my head in acknowledgement.  “We’re playing Quidditch on Saturday if the weather holds, you in?”

 

I’m about to mutter an enthusiastic “yes” at the chance to fly again when I’m suddenly reminded of my situation and the fact that my broom is in storage on the grounds of Malfoy Manor and I have no way of retrieving it.  Granger seems to sense my hesitation and lays a hand on my forearm. 

 

For some reason, this small action steadies me and I feel compelled to tell the truth.  I’ve been doing that a lot lately and it helps ease the anxiety in the pit of my stomach from living a life of half-truths and white lies.  “I’d love to, but I don’t have a broom anymore.” 

 

Weasley just shrugs his shoulders.  “No worries, mate.  I always bring a few extras when we play.  It’s not fair to have half of your players on Cleansweeps and Shooting Stars when you’ve got a stock of Firebolts and Orbitals at home.”

 

He’s surprisingly humble for someone who is a war hero and professional quidditch player.  I can only imagine how hard his mother beat him over the head once the fame started going to his head, not to discount the verbal lashing he probably got from Granger, as well.  I’ve heard his sister has some signature hex that is terrifying… and the brother with the joke shop… Weasley never really stood a chance, did he?

 

The more I think about it, the more afraid I am of Gryffindor women. Terrifying witches. 

 

For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I could actually be friends with Ronald Weasley.

 

Did I really just think that?

 

“Who do you play with?” I ask, pouring myself another glass of wine and topping off Hermione’s glass in the process.  The scent of garlic bread fills my nose and I don’t think I realize how hungry I am until now. 

 

“A few of my mates from the Cannon’s usually stop by, but it’s mostly my brothers, Harry, and Gin.  A few of Harry’s mates from the Auror Corp join us sometimes.”  Ron says, finishing off his butter beer. 

 

“Hermione usually comes to cheer us on, though you won’t ever catch her on a broom.”  Harry chimes in with a wide, teasing grin.

 

The witch points a spatula covered in sauce at the dark-haired wizard and narrows her eyes into dangerous slits.  “If you say one more word about my flying I won’t feed you and you’ll have to another sad sandwich from the corner shop down the street.”

 

Weasley can barely contain his laughter while Potter laughs outright and holds his hands up at an attempt to placate the witch with his beer is still balanced carefully between his thumb and forefinger.  “No need to threaten me, ‘Mione.  It’s all in good fun.”

 

“Why don’t you fly?”  I ask out of sheer curiosity.  I’ve never met a witch or wizard who doesn’t enjoy the freedom and thrill of flight.  Pansy comes the closest to disliking flying but it’s only because she’s afraid of heights.  As long as she closes her eyes and has a wizard or witch to hold on to, she’s fine.

 

The curly-haired witch returns to slicing up the lasagna into tidy rectangles before levitating everything over to the table.  “I just don’t particularly care for it.” She says, brushing me off.

 

“But why?”  I press, picking up the bottle of wine and following her over to the table.

 

By the looks on Potter and Weasley’s faces, I suspect they don’t even know why she dislikes flying and I get the district feeling that she’s hiding something. The pair of them sit down at the table and start digging into the food on the table, though I pull Granger’s chair out for her and wait until she’s seated until I seat myself.  I may not be considered a Malfoy anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my manners.

 

Her voice gets quiet and her eyes get a far off, distant look.  I see her cross her arms over her chest as though she’s trying to protect herself from something.  “The last time I was on a broom, we were trying to get away from that fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement.”

 

The memories of losing one of my friends thanks to his moment of sheer stupidity return, causing me to pinch the bridge of my nose and then rub my hand roughly over my face as though I’m trying to completely scrub them away.  That day where we all nearly died to the uncontrollable flames still haunts my dreams sometimes.  Thank the Gods that Potter was being the bigger man that day or I would probably be a pile of ashes spread throughout the Hogwarts castle, right now.

 

“I just can’t bring myself to get back onto one.”  She says quietly.

 

“Shit, Granger.  I’m… I…”  I try and find the words to say something… anything that might bring the smile back to her face, to make her feel better, to ease her pain.  Seeing this side of her makes me feel flustered and even more unsteady on my feet than I am these days.  She’s been so strong since she came into my life that I don’t know how to react to this side of her; the solemn Granger who is clearly still haunted by the war.

 

“Don’t.”  She says, trying to smile.  “It’s fine.  I’ll get there one day.” 

 

I stay silent but Harry seems to know just the thing to pull her out of her melancholy.

 

“It’s nothing compared to riding on the back of a dragon.”  The three of them laugh and I feel like I’m missing some sort of great inside joke.  Perhaps one day they might see fit to let me in on it, or perhaps we will even have some of our own. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Luck seems to be on my side when the snow stops falling and the sun rises over the clear horizon.  The temperature outside is still quite frigid, but without the falling snow and the murky clouds, I don’t mind it so much.  It’s my first day not working since I acquired my own position and I get to go play Quidditch for the first time in ages.

 

What more could a bloke ask for?

 

The past week has been one of the most difficult ones since my father sent me packing.  Thorough a lot of hard work and several evenings coming home covered in grime, I have since gained a firm appreciation for anyone who must work for a living.  I can’t believe I once used to look down on others because they weren’t blessed with a vault full of galleons.  I owe the entire Weasley family an apology and that, in and of itself, is very humbling. 

 

When I received payment for my first week of work from Mr. Cavendish, the first thing I did was to deposit it in my Gringotts vault, which I made absolutely certain my father no longer had access to. I did take a small portion of my wages and bought Hermione a full bouquet of beautiful, blooming yellow roses to express my gratitude.

 

The witch actually hugged me before she put the flowers in stasis in a vase so they wouldn’t wilt.  I rather enjoy seeing the fresh flowers on the table before she moves them to the counter so we can eat together without having to lean to the side when we converse.  I catch her smelling them every now and again and see her smile.  I can’t say I ever thought that any of my actions would make Granger smile.

 

She had a date earlier in the week and once again, I saw that sultry vixen I met on that first night who enchanted me with her beauty.  I think had she learned the beauty charms while we were still in school, I would’ve had a harder time finding creative insults to pepper her with.  Of course, the status of her blood would have always been an adequate target, but it really lost its effectiveness after a while without other jabs to her hair and her teeth. Having lived with her for a bit and having her essentially be my savior has completely changed my outlook on my once nemesis, however, and there’s a distinct pain of guilt and regret whenever I think about how cruel I was to her in our youth.

 

Following her date – from which I was absolutely surprised to see how early she returned, she was half-drunk on a glass of red wine before she collapsed onto the couch and propped her feet up on the coffee table.

 

_“Why do I always end up with idiots?” she groans as I wander into the kitchen to fetch myself a new glass of wine and what’s left in the bottle I had just opened before she so unceremoniously commandeered my glass for her own._

_I’ve had plenty of practice consoling Pansy after bad dates, so this task seems firmly in my wheelhouse. I top off the glass of wine which had previously been mine but was now clutched in her hand as though it were her lifeline._

_“What was wrong with this one?” I ask, filling my new wine glass while leaning against the corner of the sofa with my legs crossed._

_She’s managed to sink herself down into the cushions and her hair has fanned out around her in some sort of bizarre, curly halo.  Her dress has ridden up her thighs showing just a peek of the lace at the top of her stockings while her feet are angry and red where she’s kicked off her heels and propped her feet up on the coffee table. I’m fairly certain she’s more off of the couch than on it at this point._

_She’s managed to shift almost from siren to sloven with a simple yet awkward change in posture but for some reason, I prefer the latter.  It’s much closer to the Granger I see day in and day out. She doesn’t need to dress up in tiny skirts and mascara to get a man’s attention; she can do just that with only her brilliant mind if the idiots would take the time to speak to her._

_“This one claimed to be a potions apprentice but couldn’t even discuss the recent article on the use of opal basil in place of the genovese variety in an anti-swelling solution.”  She complains._

_“It increased the effectiveness threefold when added just at the switch from clockwise to anticlockwise stirring during the second round of boiling.”  I read the article a week or so ago on a brief break at work while I scarfed down a rather unsatisfying sandwich.  At the very least, working at an apothecary meant I had unlimited access to potions journals which I would’ve otherwise had to pay a stunning sickle for._

_A smile rises to her lips and I can see she’s just bursting to share what she read in that article.  She gets this way from time to time with each new piece of knowledge she acquires – her eyes usually sparkle with her intelligence, only this time I can’t see her eyes from where I’m perched. “The only downside is…”_

_I interrupt her as she attempts to take a drink of her wine, finding it practically impossible with how she’s laying. “You have to add twice as much, but it’s easy enough to cultivate, therefore the cost to efficiency ratio shouldn’t be impacted.”_

_For once, I think I’ve managed to stump the know-it-all.  She’s looking at me as though I have the brains of Gregory Goyle who I’m sure only managed one acceptable amidst a slew of trolls when he took his NEWTs.  Did she forget I came in second to her in most subjects? I think potions was the only subject in which I possibly surpassed her – and part of that was due to Snape’s blatant favoritism, though Slughorn certainly didn’t do me any favors during sixth year._

_“I do work in an apothecary, Granger.”  I remind her.  She blinks rapidly before sitting herself up on the couch, no longer looking quite so defeated from her failed date. The sparkle has returned to her eye as she starts to question me on other aspects of the article as we sip our wine in relative peace._

 

I’m spurred back into reality as I shiver runs up my spine. I don’t have anything resembling a Quidditch kit any longer but I throw on a pair of muggle jeans with a t-shirt under a dark emerald sweater with a pair of trainers hoping that it will be sufficient for a pick-up game.  If Weasley’s bringing extra brooms, perhaps there will also be extra Quidditch leathers available.  Either way, I’m just excited to be flying once more.

 

I practically trot down the stairs, I’m vibrating with so much energy that I barely miss bumping into Granger as she attempts to ascend them. We do an awkward dance in the small hallway, laughing as her hands skirt over the fabric of my jumper before she bounds up the stairs and I make my way into the kitchen. I fix myself a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice, levitating the flowers to the counter before sitting down at the small table in the kitchen. It isn’t long before Granger joins me and I can’t help but notice she’s managed to don a jumper in a shade almost identical to mine, though I’m certain it’s not intentional.  The color looks amazing against her skin tone and I can’t help but admire the way the dark green compliments the color of her curls and the warmth of her eyes.

 

_Shit._   No.  I am not and will not be smitten with Granger.  She’s as close to a friend as I will get at the moment not to mention she’s my flat-mate and essentially my landlord, nothing more.  Absolutely nothing more.  I attempt to push all thoughts of the witch out of my mind, but it’s difficult to do when she’s sitting across from me smiling and prattling on about something she read in one of the Arithmancy journals she subscribes to.

 

I’m drawn out of my stupor eventually, thankfully still managing to eat my cereal.  Granger seems oblivious to the fact I’ve been staring at her for the better part of five minutes and giving only little nods and acknowledgements.  I could easily hold my own in the conversation but apparently, I’ve been reduced to a daydreaming mess over the fact that Granger is actually wearing something green. 

 

Call me sentimental, but there’s something stirring about seeing a witch wearing your house colors.  The only thing better would be if I managed to convince her to wear my old Quidditch jersey if I even had access to it anymore. The sight of Malfoy emblazoned on -

 

_Nope.  No.  Absolutely not.  Stop it, Malfoy.  Get a grip on yourself._

 

“We can apparate to the pitch together, if you’d like.” She offers before popping another slice of orange in her mouth.

 

I don’t know how my voice doesn’t crack when I respond to her offer, but I thank the gods, Merlin, and all of the fates that the witch is oblivious. “I would like that.” And I really would – for one, I don’t know exactly where I’m going and for two, she’s going anyway and it’s an excuse to touch her.

 

_Fuck, Draco. It’s Granger – you don’t… you can’t fancy her._

 

I’m pretty sure I imagine the fact that her cheeks are just a bit flushed at my acceptance.  “Everyone should be getting there in just a few minutes, if you’re ready that is.”  Is it just my imagination or does she seem hesitant?  Perhaps she did notice my attentions… I rather hope not.  I smother all thoughts of the witch and force my mind to think about playing Quidditch with the blokes.

 

Yes,  my thoughts revolve around flying around the field chasing the snitch or even playing Chaser and passing off the quaffle to another Chaser on my team, certainly not the way Granger would look perched at the front of my broom with my arms wrapped around her.  Definitely not that. 

 

“I’m finished.”  I say, lifting my bowl of cereal to my lips to drink the rest of the milk – it’s a habit I haven’t been able to break since I was a child, much to the chagrin of my mother.

 

She vanishes the dishes we’ve used to the sink and we don our coats. Her curls spill out from under a rather lopsided hat which she admits she knitted herself a few years ago. When I tease her about the hat, she threatens to make me one and I know that I would absolutely wear the silly thing, though she claims she’s gotten much better at the craft since she asked Molly Weasley for a few lessons.

 

I can’t help but recall the endless parade of knitwear from the Weasley clan.

 

We exit her home and cross the street to a small, secluded park.  It’s really a perfect place from which to apparate.  While merely grasping my hand would work, she tucks her arm into mine and I’m reminded of the fact that my parents expected me to parade a pureblood witch around the gardens in a similar manner as part of a formal courtship.  I can’t help but rest my other hand on top of hers before she whirls us away into oblivion.

 

We arrive in a dormant orchard and walk a few short feet before I see an expanse of grassland before me.  The customary hoops are set up on what appears to be the pitch and I see a small gathering of people in the distance, several of them with distinctive red hair.  The sight of a house off in the distance that looks like it might fall apart with a good sneeze catches my eye.

 

“Are we…” I start, but Hermione finished my thought before I can even ask my entire question.

 

“At the Burrow?  Yes.  Ron had the pitch built a few years ago so he and Ginny could properly train for tryouts, though Ginny isn’t auditioning until the spring.  The hoops used to be nothing more than a bit of scrap, but as he’s been more successful, he’s replaced them with proper ones.” 

 

I suddenly feel quite nervous knowing I’m walking into a den of Weasels, especially having insulted most of them at some point in my life – usually to their faces.  I can only hope they’ll be as gracious in their acceptance of me as Ron has been.  Having Hermione on my arm may help as well.

 

It never hurts to have Gryffindor’s Golden Girl in your corner, right?

 

We approach the crowd of gingers (and several non-gingers) and I draw a deep breath, willing myself to buck up. It’s just the Weasley family, I remind myself.  Blood traitors and champions of underdogs, the whole lot of them.  Except perhaps for that Percy bloke, I’ve heard he’s a right git, sometimes. 

 

Hermione waits until we’re just upon the crowd to detach herself from me and it’s really so she can embrace Luna and Ginny, or so I tell myself.  I recognize several members of the crowd who all seem to be clustered around a wooden picnic table with quite a spread laid out.  There’s a large carafe which seems to house hot apple cider and it’s encircled with pastries, fruits, and sausages held under stasis to keep them hot. I find myself a bit put out that I settled for cereal this morning at the sight of the food. 

 

Ron, of course, has a plate piled high and is munching on something while speaking to one of his brothers, George, I think.  When I see the lone Weasley twin I’m reminded that his other half died tragically in the war.  Bill Weasley is standing next to a very pregnant part-veela that I remember from my fourth year and appears to be deep in conversation with Harry and some shorter, stockier bloke I don’t recognize from the back.  The oldest of the Weasley brothers is casually feeding his wife bits of fruit and I can’t help but wonder if there’s a bit of veela allure at play.   

 

Two witches stand to the side and appear to be laughing and joking with another wizard who has his back turned to me.  Another witch and wizard sidle up to that group from somewhere within the house and I instantly recognize Angelina Johnson and Oliver Wood.  I’ve heard Wood plays professionally for Puddlemere United, though I’ve not seen a game in ages. 

 

“Oi!  You lot, shut your mouths for a second,” Ron shouts over the din of conversation.  Everyone turns to look over at him and I suddenly find Hermione back at my side, clutching a mug of cider.  She points out those that I don’t recognize as two of the aurors Harry works with who were a few years ahead of us in school.  The shorter, stockier bloke turns out to be Seamus Finnegan and I honestly had no idea he ever had any interest in quidditch, but Hermione assures me he’s a fair beater.  There’s one other witch who looks vaguely familiar and a sense of dread settles into my stomach.

 

Katie Bell.  The witch who suffered because of one of my paltry attempts to off Dumbledore.  Fuck.  I should go, I don’t want to ruin their day, especially not hers. 

 

Two others tumble out of the tipsy looking house in the distance and I’m honestly surprised to see Marcus Flint and Cassius Warrington being trailed by a rather plump witch with bright red hair and someone who I can only assume fathered all of these redheads.

 

“We’ve managed to scrape up enough players for a proper match today. As usual, Ginny and Harry will be captains and will toss a Galleon to see who gets first pick.”  Ginny wins the toss and she smiles gleefully while Harry actually appears to pout just a bit about not getting first pick.

 

Warrington comes to stand by me, but Flint breaks away and wraps an arm around Wood’s shoulders.  “Never expected to see you here, Malfoy,” Warrington remarks as I watch Wood plant a kiss on Flint’s cheek. 

 

“Can’t say I ever expected to be here.  I guess you can say that I’ve been somewhat adopted…,” I mutter before gesturing generally towards Flint and Wood, “What’s the story there?”

 

I forgot Hermione was right next to me because she gives an answer before Warrington can.  “It’s no big secret, really.  They’ve been sweet on each other for years.  Marcus starting playing with the boys when Harry invited Oliver over a year or so ago.”

 

“Granger,” Warrington nods in greeting to the witch hovering by my side.  “You’ve been well, I trust?”

 

She bristles a bit and I’m surprised, though he looks rather stiff and uncomfortable to be in such close proximity to her.  As far as I know, the Warringtons never supported the blood supremacy movement so I’m not entirely sure why the pair of them are acting so strange around each other.  “As well as can be expected, Cassius, thank you.”

 

“I’ll uh, I’ll see you around then, yeah?”  He practically stumbles over his words as Granger moves just a tiny bit closer to me.  She gives him a curt nod and he stalks off as Ron explains the house rules.  It’s nothing I haven’t heard before – just the standard quidditch fare, so I tune him out and focus my attention on the witch at my side.

 

“You okay?”  I ask Hermione before reaching up behind her to rest a hand against her shoulder in what I hope she sees as a friendly gesture.

 

“Yeah, Cash and I, well, we dated for a few months.”  She leans against me a bit and releases a heavy sigh.  “I wasn’t expecting to see him today.  He hasn’t come around in a long time.” 

 

I suddenly hear the youngest Weasley calling out my name and I realize that I’ve been picked for her team before I have a chance to respond to Granger.  It makes sense, really – that I’ve been picked, being that Potter is the only other trained Seeker who is here, at least out of those that I know.  To my surprise, Granger pecks me on the cheek and shoos me towards where the teams have begun to form.  I’m shocked to see that Ginny actually called my name first.  I tuck my hands in my pockets and go to stand beside the lithe redhead witch who has claimed her brother as her team’s Keeper, leaving Harry to choose Wood, the only other trained keeper of the lot.

 

Slowly the teams come together, with a bit of arguing between the two captains.  Ginny almost seems bound and determined to get all of her brothers on her own team, but Potter steals Bill at the last minute.  I glance back over my shoulder to see Hermione clustered together with the Weasley parents, the pregnant veela, and Luna, who seems to be doing a strange little hop around a cluster of mushrooms that are peeking through the snow.

 

I find myself on a team with Ginny, Ron, George, Warrington, Katie, and the auror named Marco.  The other team is comprised of Harry, as captain, Wood, Bill, Seamus, Angelina, Flint, and the other auror, Vivian.  Each team is given ten minutes to strategize and grab brooms and any other needed gear before the match starts.

 

I make a split-second decision to walk just a bit faster so that I catch up with the majority of the group who are heading toward the broom shed, though I purposefully keep my stride in line with that of Katie Bell’s.  “Ms. Bell, a word, if I may.”

 

She doesn’t look at me, but nods that she’s at least willing to listen to what I have to say. 

 

“I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for the curse you were forced to bear, but I want to offer my sincerest apologies for what happened during my sixth year.  I was put in an impossible position, not that it is an excuse, and what I did was completely foul.  I apologize.”

 

She seems to mull over my words as we reach the shed where the brooms are kept.  I grab a Firebolt, relishing in the feeling of the sleek wood as it passes through my hands.  I can’t wait to take to the sky again and even if she doesn’t accept my apology, I know I’ll feel better the moment I mount my broom and soar into the air.  At least, I’ll have tried.

 

Katie grabs a broom and turns towards me, tucking a lock of brown hair back behind her ear.  “Malfoy, I forgave you a while ago, after your trial and all and I heard about what you went through.  I don’t really trust you, but you have my forgiveness, nonetheless.” 

 

“That’s more than I deserve,” I reply honestly.  “Thank you.” 

 

She makes a noncommittal noise and turns away from me seeking out the other two chasers on our team.

 

I breathe a sigh of relief and can’t help but laugh when I look down and see that my clothing has been charmed to a perfect shade of Gryffindor gold.  Ginny, the team captain, just smirks at her choice of coloring, knowing she’s got not one, but two former Slytherins on her team for the day.  I grab a set of leather arm and shin guards and strap them on over my clothing.  My coat is discarded in favor of flying in my now gold jumper and trousers with the extra protection the guards offer.

 

Strategy is quickly discussed and before I know it, I’ve mounted the broom and I’m soaring over the rather well-maintained pitch.  I catch sight of Granger, still sitting with the others, and she offers me a friendly wave.  The feel of the cold, winter air against my skin brings back a rush of memories and I can’t help but feel pure and utter joy for the first time in months as I zip around the pitch, dodging the other players with a skill I didn’t know I still had. 

 

Arthur Weasley, who appears to be the referee for the game, blows a whistle and we take our positions.  The bludgers are released, the snitch is set free, and once the quaffle is tossed upwards, the game begins.

 

I don’t even realize how much time has passed in our little pick-up game once I finally spot the snitch, but the sun is much higher in the sky than it was before.  Potter and I have been running afoul of each other for the majority of the game, which his team is currently winning, but only by about 30 points.  Surprisingly, the teams are rather evenly matched and neither keeper seems to keep on letting in any goals and I can’t help but wonder exactly how many of the players apart from Ron and Wood really do play professionally. 

 

I snake along the edge of the field at a leisurely pace, attempting to keep Potter off of my back while I keep a firm eye on the fluttering, golden object just ahead of me.  When he veers upwards presumably to trick me into following, I take that as my cue and urge my broom around the curve of the pitch at a rapid pace.  Not much later, I tumble to the ground with the snitch grasped within my hand, smiling triumphantly.  To my utter surprise, the rest of my team dismounts and we laugh and cheer together, much the same way we would’ve celebrated a victory when we were in school. 

 

It passes in a blur, but I shake hands with every member of the other team as well as several members of my own.  Ron is practically beaming and babbling he’s so proud of our win as he slings a lanky arm around my shoulders and leads me off towards where his mother has apparently laid out lunch talking of celebratory butterbeers and making sure I’m off of work for their next pick-up game.

 

Everyone crowds around a long, wooden table where probably seven different conversations are happening all at once.  There’s a bit of shouting as plates are passed around and everyone just digs in where they see fit.  I manage to snag a seat between Granger and Flint and we chat about Flint’s job in International Cooperation, carefully avoiding any mention of my father who happens to stalk down to that department fairly often currying favors.

 

For the first time in a long time, I feel completely accepted.  No one is looking at me like I’m the scum of the earth or avoiding looking at me, even Katie who meets my gaze a time or two and gives me a small, yet encouraging nod.  I’m having a pleasant meal catching up with a few old friends as well as making a few new ones.  It turns out George needs a new source for a few rare potions ingredients that I know we carry at Cavendish’s Apothecary and if he finds the quality acceptable he might just offer Mr. Cavendish a supplier’s contract.

 

Somehow, this giant family made of up of a slew of redheads, orphans, and Merlin only knows who or what else has claimed me as one of their own.  I’m so elated to even be there that it barely registers when Molly tells me that she expects to see me at her table for Christmas dinner and that she won’t take no for an answer.

 

My own mother and father may have disowned me, but I’ve managed to find my very own version of something resembling a family.  Maybe I really will do alright for myself.  I have a job.  I have friends if the way Ron keeps calling me mate means anything, and now, it seems, I’ve managed to find myself my very own family. A family I’ve chosen who holds no expectations of me apart from being a generally good person.

 

If there’s one thing a Malfoy puts before everyone else, it’s family.  And I’m going to try my hardest not to let this one down.

 


	6. Chapter 6

I like to think of myself a rather competent, worldly bloke with an outlook on life that is slowing bordering on the more realistic side of things.

Prior to attending Hogwarts, I had a private tutor who schooled me in everything from geography and geometry to wandlore and wizarding traditions for several hours each day after I was deemed too old to be looked after by a house elf alone. We traveled several times per year and by the time I turned four, I had been the nearly every continent and had been to more countries than I could reliably count. I was trained in etiquette, the art of polite conversation, and dance up until the time I went to Hogwarts and even then, over the summers the lessons would continue. Of course, all of this was to prepare me to assume my father's title as Lord Malfoy and continue the family name like a good, little pureblood heir is supposed to do.

Of all of the training and education I have had over the past however many years of my life, nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing prepared me for Christmas with the Weasley family.

Honestly, I'm still in a state of shock that the clan of gingers even let me put one toe into their sacred circle but not only that, Arthur called me  _son_  (twice now!) and Molly was asking an awful lot of questions about favorite colors and foods which leads me to believe she's up to something. I'll wear the damned sweater she knits me with pride (if I get one) and have never been one to turn down anything sweet. Ron calls me  _mate_  and I get on with Ginny just fine, but it was really the reaction of the rest of the siblings that floored me. They met me and didn't just turn me away for the prick I was when we were all in school together, for the first time when I came over for Quidditch and from then on, it's like I'm one of them.

I tried to apologize to Molly once for how awful I was to everyone and the woman waved me off with a ladle in her hand, no less and told me to grab a platter and take it out to the garden and to send George and Ron in to get the rest.

I'm surprised I didn't trip over my own jaw hitting the floor.

I've been corresponding with Bill because he's been exhibiting a few wolfish type symptoms following his run-in with Greyback during the Battle of Hogwarts and we're looking into developing and testing a low-dose of wolfsbane that might help with his pre-moon headaches and irritability even though he's not a werewolf. Apparently, simply being marked by one can cause the victim to take on a few characteristics here and there. I'm certain Granger would find that a fascinating course of study and I thoroughly intend to engage her in the discussion once I start on the project. For now, I plan to consult with my employer and determine his thoughts. Perhaps if I bring the project to him, he'll consent to take me on as an apprentice. I'll still have to scrub the floors and dust several times per day, but at least I'll be learning a trade in addition to keeping the shop looking nice. It took a few weeks.

I've yet to meet Charlie but I figured out that George was on my side when he passed me a bowl of fruit and upon plucking a bit of orange from the bowl, I started exhaling bubbles. Chaos ensued after everyone realized he had spiked the lemonade (not the fruit bowl we thought was the culprit) and soon I wasn't the only one and there were bubbles of all colors (and scents) floating around the room. That lasted for a good fifteen minutes because the prat didn't know the counter for the charm, the prick. He clapped me on the back, thanked me for being a good sport and said I was welcome 'round his shop at any time. We traded a few well-placed jabs back and forth and by the end of the night he was pouring firewhiskey into my tumbler and calling me "mate" just like Ron.

Percy is the only one I don't really have a good handle on. He's as pretentious as they come and while he sometimes seems to look down his nose at his family, you can tell he really loves them. At the very least, he seems to tolerate me and hasn't said anything to indicate otherwise.

I managed to do a bit of shopping in Diagon Alley and was able to pick up a few presents here and there, though I couldn't spend as much as I would have liked. It's been challenging having limitations set on my spending, but thanks to Granger who won't take a knut off of me for rent, I've been able to save up a respectable amount of money from my wages. The witch insisted upon a Christmas tree and decorated the rest of the flat so it looks like a yuletide explosion, but the presents I've purchased are neatly wrapped and tucked beneath the tree she chose. I've yet to ascertain whether she's like this every year or if it's for my benefit because she thinks since I'll be without my family this year that I need to be surrounded by yuletide cheer.

A large evergreen sits in a corner of the living room surrounded by several presents. While there are muggle ornaments and pictures adorning the tree (several of which I suspect she rescued from her parent's home), she has a fair collection of magical ornaments. Atop the tree hovers a star that keeps the stasis charm on the tree fresh while also putting out a bit of light. Twinkling lights are woven through the branches while tinkling bells jingle periodically. Of course, the witch made me help decorate the tree (and the rest of the house) and she seemed to get some sort of distinct pleasure of the chore. There were carols playing in the background that I'd never heard of but she seemed to know every single word.

" _You have to help!" Given the tone of her voice, I'm shocked that Granger didn't also stamp her foot as she stood near the monstrosity of a tree she picked out and carted home. I was more than happy to sit on the sofa while indulging in a bottle of wine and watching her pert behind sway as she decorated the tree but she's got that gleam in her eye that I know means that I'll end up giving in._

_I swirl the merlot in my glass and eye the witch. "Granger, I've never in my life decorated a tree." I doubt she'll capitulate but I secretly love it when she gets all indignant and righteous. I know I loathed it in school but now I can't get enough of the expression on her face when she gets into one of her moods. That woman could run the world._

_I know when I first saw her in the bar that first night, I compared her to Aphrodite but really she's Athena, Hera, and the goddess of love all rolled into one. She's brilliant and I'm slowly letting myself admit that I fancy the witch._

" _That's exactly why you have to help, Draco! It's like... oh I don't know, a rite of passage."_

" _The twelve trees we had at the manor were perfectly crafted by my mother, Granger." I don't like that this time of year brings up thoughts of my family but I'm trying not to wallow in it. "My father and I were never allowed in proximity of her precious trees and we were especially not allowed to decorate them."_

_She leans forward and I swear her hair grows outward by an inch. I want to sink my fingers into that mane of curls and never let go, but I know she'll never think of me in that way. There's too much history between us and even though I've apologized, I know I'm not worthy of her. She's been ridiculously kind to me since we ran into each other in that bar and I'm doing my best to make her see that I've changed. It's still strange to think of her as a friend but there is this small voice in the back of my mind that keeps screaming that "friend" is not enough._

" _Exactly! Now get your privileged arse over here and help me." She holds her glass of wine out towards me with a sly smirk. "And I'll take a refill since you're getting up anyway."_

_The smile she flashes me tells me there is absolutely no getting out of this._

In addition to the monstrosity of the tree, she's draped garlands of holly and evergreen over several flat surfaces, winding around a myriad of picture frames and other bits and baubles. There's a wreath on the door that will with you a Joyous Yule and a few charmed statues of Father Christmas, Elves, Snowmen, and Reindeer. I don't fully understand why she needs these little things, but she's promised to make me watch something on the telly that will explain everything there is to know about muggle Christmas traditions.

The witch even procured a stocking for me and somehow inscribed it with my name (which twinkles in gold script) and it now hangs near the hearth right next to hers. It's positively domestic and I don't think she realizes how giddy it makes me feel to see our names next to one another on something so ridiculous as enlarged socks.

I feel like such a sentimental fool.

In preparation for the pair of us attending Christmas with the Weasley family, Hermione also insisted that we decorate biscuits shaped like angels, gingerbread men, trees, candy canes, and Circe knows what else. I insisted upon biscuits shaped like candles, holly, and bells since those were often used in my own family traditions when I was a child.

Granger walked me through all of the steps required in making said biscuits and then insisted upon something she called an "everything cookie" her mother made as a child that included a ridiculous number ingredients but honestly tasted like a bit of nirvana in my mouth. I was tempted to eat the entire platter, but she insisted on making up boxes of various sweets and biscuits for several members of the Weasley family as well as a few other friends.

Despite the fact that they disowned me, I still felt obligated to send a box to my mother and so we sent Hermione's owl off with one with a card that simply read "Happy Yule" followed by a "Love, Draco."

When we set off to the Burrow, we're both bundled up to our ears in coats, scarves, and hats. My arms are laden with several boxes of sweets while Hermione's arms are piled with neatly wrapped gifts. We manage to balance everything, even if it's a bit precarious, so we can grasp hands and apparate together.

We appear with a crack and immediately Ron and Harry rush out of the house, already wearing Weasley sweaters. Ron's is a dark blue while Harry's is green, presumably to match his eyes and both are emblazoned with the first letter of their first names. They take the packages from us after we exchange pleasantries and wish each other a "Happy Yule" and a "Merry Christmas". The smell of a ham baking fills my nose and my mouth starts to water and I shed my coat, gloves, scarf, and hat – hanging everything on a hook near the door.

The tiny living room is packed with people, mostly family but a few friends are present as well. Lovegood is drinking some kind of fizzy, blue drink that has turned her skin a pale shade of green while she chats with Ginny. That witch never ceases to amaze me. I don't understand how anyone can be so eccentric and yet so accepted. Neville's got his arm slung around a witch with shoulder-length hair so brown it's almost black, but I can't see her face. Her silhouette looks somewhat familiar. George, Charlie, Bill, Neville, and the unknown witch are gathered around where Fleur is attempting to best Ron in a game of wizard's chess. I think Hermione has disappeared into the kitchen to help Mrs. Weasley and Harry is approaching me with a child in tow.

Wait.

Why does Potter have a child with him? The boy even looks like him with his tanned skin and unruly black hair. The resemblance is uncanny and I start doing the math in my head to figure out how old Potter must have been to have fathered the boy. Was I somehow unaware that the Boy-Who-Lived had a son?

"Draco, can you keep Teddy company for a minute? Arthur needs some help and he doesn't fancy playing out back with the girls."

The little boy and I stare at each other and within the space of a breath, his messy black hair fades into a platinum blond which falls into his eyes and his skin becomes unnaturally pale… just like mine. Even his eyes change to the same subtle blue-gray that runs through the Malfoy family line. He's even managed to copy the way I smile. This kid and I could be brothers.

"Metamorphagus," Harry says with a shrug and a smile before leaving me in the company of the child while he's off to do who knows what with Arthur.

Teddy and I stare at each other for another moment as Harry just walks off, leaving me in charge of this tiny person. He can't be more than six years old, seven at the most. It's clear he's sizing me up, in the same way, I am to him.

"What's your name?" He asks.

"Draco Malfoy," I reply with a smile, holding my hand out towards him in an effort to be friendly. "It's nice to meet you."

He takes my hand and shakes it and I'm struck by how tiny it feels in my hand. I wish I'd had a brother and seeing this kid makes me wish I weren't an only child – not that my parents didn't try for more children it's just that I was the only one who survived.

"Teddy Lupin." Well, at least I know that he's not Potter's son but he is the son of my former professor. I hadn't any idea that Professor Lupin, god rest his soul, ever married.

"I think we're cousins," he says, blowing upwards in an attempt to get some of his hair out of his face. I remember how awkward my hair was at his age and am infinitely thankful for hair products and styling spells. I pass my had over his hair and it slicks back into the familiar style I wore it when I was in school.

He grins up at me. "Wicked."

I'm still pondering the fact that he said we're cousins, and I respond with a rather non-specific, "Oh?" Luckily, he knows what I mean.

Teddy rocks back on his heels. "That's what Granny says."

"Who is your Granny?"

"Andromeda Tonks." The way he says her name is a bit garbled, but I get the gist enough to realize that she's my mother's sister – disowned for marrying a muggle. The aunt I've never met. If Teddy is her grandson and he is here, does that mean she is as well? The way he looks towards the kitchen tells me that she probably is.

"I suppose that does make us cousins." I smile. I've found family in the strangest of places since my own kicked me out on my rear. I'm starting to think that refusing to marry Astoria Greengrass was the best thing I've ever done, though it's only been about two months since everything came to pass.

"Draco, could we maybe go flying?" He glances towards the doors leading out towards the garden. "Vicky and Dominique don't really like flying and Harry told me you play Quidditch."

"Why don't you go get your coat and we'll go for a spin, yeah?" The kid races off towards the coat racks and before I can turn to follow him, there's a hand on my shoulder.

"Draco Malfoy." I'm shocked by how much my aunt's voice sounds like my mother's. She has the same, warm soprano and when I turn to look at her I see that, except for her dark hair, she and my mother favor one another.

"Aunt," I manage to say. She gives me a fond smile as I shove my hands in my pockets completely unsure of how to act around the aunt I never knew.

"He looks just like you when you were that age," she says fondly as Teddy dons his coat so quickly as though the house is burning down. "Well, when he's made his coloring match yours, anyway."

"I don't understand. I don't remember you at all."

Even her laugh sounds like my mother's. "Of course, poppet. I've not seen you since you were a baby but Cissa used to send me pictures and a card over the holidays." She places her hand on my shoulder and smiles fondly at me again, "Behind your father and grandfather's backs, of course."

I laugh at that and smile at the older witch. "I know grandfather especially wouldn't have approved, but I hope father wouldn't have stood in the way."

"Cissa always spoke fondly of your father in her letters though I didn't hear from her much during the war what with your father's activities."

I nod, my eyes suddenly glued to the floor. I'm branded with the same mark as my father and can only imagine what she might think of me. I brace myself for her rejection but it never comes. She tucks a finger under my chin and lifts my eyes back to her own.

"You're much more than your mark on that arm, poppet. I've heard nothing but lovely things about you from nearly everyone here, Hermione especially speaks quite highly of you."

I'm pretty sure I'm blushing with how hot my face suddenly feels. "Oh, I um.."

She laughs again and once again I'm reminded of my mother. I'm glad I sent her the box of biscuits, even if she tossed them in the fire though I secretly hope she's changed her mind about everything.

"I suggest you take my grandson outside before he spontaneously combusts." She says and I see Teddy bouncing up and down by the door that leads to the garden holding my coat and the rest of my winter gear.

"Right." I take a deep breath and wrap my arms around my aunt – the last of my blood family if my parents decide to never accept me again. "Has he learned to fly yet?"

She shakes her head, returning my embrace with equal fervor. She almost seems to hold onto me a bit longer than one would normally hug a nephew for. "You can have the privilege if you'd like. He's been on a broom with Harry but has yet to fly his own."

I straighten my shoulders and step back with a nod of my head. "I'll keep him safe, Aunt Andromeda."

"I know you will, Draco." She makes a shooing motion with her hand and flashes me another smile. "Now, off to the garden with you."

Teaching Teddy to fly has to be one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. The boy is completely enraptured by each and every word that I say and he looks at me like I'm someone to look up to, like I'm a role model, and like I don't have a mark on my arm that brands me as an outcast. It saddens me to think that I've missed the first six or seven years of his life but I'm determined to be there for him as he grows. He's made that big of a mark on me in the little time I've known him.

It took a few attempts and a bit of frustration but he was able to command the broom to hover as the snow started falling in sporadic, fat flakes. Once he figured out how to get off of the ground, he flew low enough so that the toes of his trainers brushed the top of the frozen grass. I hover nearby on an ancient Cleansweep Seven and we're both making laps around the Weasley's garden as the snow starts to come down harder. The grinning blond boy has pink cheeks and windswept hair and I can only imagine that I look the same.

Andromeda steps onto the porch to watch the pair of us and Teddy practically beams at her. "Granny, look! I'm flying!" he calls out to her and of course, she gives him a winning smile and applauds, loud and proud.

After several minutes of flying and as the snow starts coming down harder than before making visibility less than ideal for a brand-new flier, Teddy and I hop off of our brooms and head inside. Hermione, who must be surrounded by warming charms given that she's only wearing her jeans and a jumper, is leaning against the doorframe with two mugs filled to the brim with hot apple cider. As I approach, she hands me a cup with a warm smile.

"That was really sweet of you, you know, to teach him how to fly."

"I'm a little surprised Harry hasn't done it. The two of them seemed pretty close." I say, watching as Teddy, still wearing his Malfoy blonde hair, gestures wildly to Potter about his first time on a broom. I try not to blush at her compliment but luckily any color that comes to my cheeks is hidden by the flush from the cold.

Hermione nods, taking a sip of the hot cider. "He's Harry's godson but with his job, he doesn't get to spend as much time with him as he would like."

I nod feeling rather proud that even though he's still talking wildly to Harry that his hair stays the same as mine. I hope that means I've made an impression on the boy. "I enjoyed teaching him and really, he was an apt pupil."

Hermione laughs and we walk inside to the warmth of the Burrow. She graciously holds my beverage while I slip out of my coat. "Have you ever considered teaching?"

After I hang up my jacket and assorted items, I thank her for holding my drink and shake my head. "No, it's not something I've ever really considered. I'm still hoping that Cavendish will take me on as an apprentice."

"Maybe after you –" Hermione is suddenly cut off by a very loud squeal and a female voice, that is exceedingly familiar yelling out my name.

"Draco!"

I suddenly find myself with an armful of witch who is barely a head shorter than me with an olive complexion and a turned-up nose. Her brown hair is so dark its nearly black and it rests just above her shoulders. It's the witch whom Neville had his arm around when I first came to the Burrow and it happens to be a witch I know exceedingly well.

"Pansy? What are you doing here?" I feel stupid asking the question considering I saw her earlier with Longbottom, but the words slip out of my mouth, nonetheless.

The familiarity of her perfume is calming and I'm suddenly very thankful to see her. I haven't really heard from her, Theo, or Blaise since everything happened with my folks and I wonder if her mother told her I've been disowned.

She waves one hand a bit flippantly while the other stays around my waist. "Augusta is off in Spain for the holidays so Neville invited me to spend Christmas with him here rather than at Longbottom Court." She takes a step back and looks me over, sucking in a breath as though she's just remembered something. Of course she has… and in that moment I know that she knows.

"Oh my goodness, Draco, Mother told me what happened with your parents and Daphne's little sister. I can't believe Lucius and Cissa would do that."

I shove my hands in my pockets and realize I'm looking at my shoes. "Yeah, well…"

"Have you heard from them at all? Mother said Cissa looked a bit wan." She taps a perfectly manicured nail against her palm.

"No, I haven't," I mutter, wondering if the reason my mother looks less than perfect is that she's carrying the next Malfoy heir since I've been disinherited.

"How are you…" She trails off. Both of us have been raised to not discuss trivialities such as living arrangements and money. Both have always been exceptional and plentiful and no one who grew up the way we did ever thought they would have to worry for where to live and galleons to spend. The only things we ever had to worry about were whether we would vacation in France or Italy and if we had to change our Galleons to Pounds in the off chance that we wanted something sold by a muggle designer.

I try to think of how to explain my situation and thankfully, Hermione comes to my rescue. "He's doing quite well, actually. He lives with me." The way she says it, she sounds like she's rather proud of me and I can't help but smile.

Pansy's eyes widen just a fraction and she glances between us. "Wait. You and… and Granger?"

Neville walks over at the moment and we never get a chance to prove her wrong. "Molly says that dinner is ready if you want to come through." He wraps an arm around Pansy's shoulder and kisses the top of her head. "Coming, sweet pea?"

She lets her eyes flit between the two of us once more and the look of shock on her face is nearly palpable as Neville leads her away towards the dining room. Granger, Merlin love the witch, just smiles at Pansy.

Once Pansy's out of earshot, Granger laughs. "I've always wanted to get one over on her ever since she and Nev started dating. He brought her around for the first time a few months ago."

I chuckle and pick up my now cooled cider from a nearby side table. "I don't understand how that happened. I had no idea she was even seeing anyone."

"She did an internship rotation on the Janus Thickey ward and ended up meeting Neville there because of his parents. They somehow hit it off. She's pleasant enough now I suppose but I highly doubt we'll ever be good friends."

We make our way to the dining room but find ourselves inexplicably stuck to the floor about two feet away from the archway leading into the room where everyone is gathered. I look over at Hermione whose face has turned scarlet and her eyes are trained upward.

"George Gideon Weasley!" she yells as I look up and realize we are standing under a rather jolly looking sprig of mistletoe.

"I know it was you!"

Mistletoe that happens to be charmed judging by the fact that we can't move more than a foot away from one another.

"You'll be lucky if you ever have red hair again when I'm done with you!"

The only way to get the spell to release is to kiss whoever you're trapped under the mistletoe with.

"I can't believe that… well, yes I can believe it and you are so, so dead."

Which means I'm going to have to kiss Hermione.

Her hands are on her hips and she's turned completely away from me still threatening harm upon George's person and suddenly, the archway is filled with almost everyone in the entire Burrow. A few of them are laughing at our predicament while Luna, whose skin is still an uncanny shade of green, gives us both a look that makes me shiver. I can't tell if she's angry that she's trapped beneath the mistletoe or that she's trapped beneath the mistletoe with me.

Drawing in a deep breath, I place my hands along Hermione's arms and spin her around. My fingers become buried in her curls as I pull her face to mine and press our lips together. Her breath hitches and she kisses me back, rather than simply letting me break the spell by kissing her. I vaguely register an eruption of noise in the background and I secretly hope that everyone is cheering rather than getting ready to hex me for daring to touch Hermione.

Her lips are soft and she smells oh, so sweet being this close to me. It's chaste, barely more than a peck but it's enough. I feel the magic holding us dissipate and I reluctantly withdraw, stepping out of the grasp of the mistletoe after withdrawing my fingers from her curls.

I've just kissed Hermione Granger… and she kissed me back.


	7. Chapter 7

The blush staining her cheeks remains for a good few minutes, even as she sends hex after hex after George.  He managed to dodge most of them, save for the tiny canaries which chased him around the Burrow for a good few minutes and his hair is now a strange mixture of colors.  

 

There’s so much food on the table that it seems to groan under the weight of it all.  The ham I smelled upon entry takes center stage in the middle of the table.  It’s surrounded by turreens of roasted and mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts, yams, stuffing, carrots, parsnips, and fluffy rolls.  There’s an entire side table covered in cakes, pies, and pastries.

 

The family and friends gathered around the table are engaged in what seems to be at least five different conversations.  There’s raucous laughter that erupts periodically as one person recounts a story and another chimes in between bites.  I honestly feel a bit overwhelmed by it all.  The family dinners I attended growing up were stiff, formal affairs and while I had one experience with a Weasley meal before, this one seems entirely different. 

 

She must have a sixth sense or something because Hermione reaches under the table and squeezes my hand.  Her lips are dangerously close to my ear as she wishes me a Happy Yule towards the end dinner.  Her fingers linger over mine and the slow drag of fingertips across my knuckles gives me hope that she’s reluctantly removing her hand from mine.  If I’m being honest with myself, which is truly something I’m trying, I want to keep her hand in mine.  If I was in over my head before, that peck under the mistletoe utterly did me in.  Still, I’m grateful that I have the privilege of being her friend.  I still doubt there’s even a remote possibility of anything more, despite that pretty blush she wore on her cheeks after the mistletoe incident.

 

Following dinner we’re all herded into the living room to open presents.  Pansy is perched in Longbottom’s lap which is a sight I’m still struggling to adjust to.  Of all of the wizards for Pansy to choose, I strangely approve of the match.  She needs someone who won’t give into her bouts of fantasy and frippery.  The eldest Weasley sibling is lightly stroking his wife’s bright blonde hair while Molly cradles her youngest granddaughter in her arms cooing to the babe.  Ginny is curled up in an armchair with a mug of cider while Potter perches on the armrest of her chair, occasionally leaning down to drop a kiss on the top of her head. 

 

There is so much easy affection in the room – something my family never had.  Even Pansy seems to have adjusted to this group of witches and wizards who wear their hearts on their sleeves.  Gryffindors, the lot of them.  My own witch, well… it’s not quite fair to call her that since she’s not mine no matter how much I’d like her to be, is sandwiched between George and Ron on the sofa and she’s gently holding George’s hand while trying to keep him in good spirits.  A small pang of jealousy twinges in my chest but I tamp it down.  I’ve no right to be jealous.

 

Arthur directs the presents under the tree to their rightful owners and of course, Teddy’s pile is nearly as tall as he is.  My aunt beams at her grandson as he tears into the mountain of presents.  Soon, everyone who wasn’t wearing a Weasley sweater has donned theirs, Pansy and myself included.  I can tell that Mrs. Weasley took a bit more care with Pansy’s as there is a bit of eyelet lace around the cuffs and the design to the knitting is subtle.  My own sweater is a deep, hunter green with a letter “D” in elegant script in a black yarn. 

 

I hear a squeal from across the room and very shortly, my arms are full of witch.  Hermione is clutching the magical card catalogue I got her for Christmas in her hand and her arms are wrapped around my neck as though they belong there.  I hesitantly pull my arms around her, returning the unexpected hug.

 

She’s babbling a mile a minute and about the only words I can catch are “thank you” and “this is amazing” and “best gift ever.”

 

I whisper a “you’re welcome” close to her ear and drop a kiss on her cheek before releasing her.  The pretty blush from earlier is back on her cheeks as she shimmies her way across the living room to tuck herself back between George and Ron to continue opening her presents. 

 

I’ve managed to amass a small pile of presents myself which are piled near my knees where I’m sitting on the floor, leaning back against the hearth.  Hermione gifted me a winter cloak and a pair of soft, dragon leather gloves.  Practical, as always, and desperately needed with the weather we’ve been having.  Apart from my sweater, there’s also a tin of biscuits from Molly and Arthur.  The most surprising gifts came from Harry and Ron – the broom I used during our previous quidditch match as well as a broomstick servicing kit.  I almost hugged the pair of them for the generous gift, but I settled for a handshake and the promise of a pick-up game when the weather clears.

 

At the bottom of the pile of presents in a simple letter.  Heavy weight cream colored parchment, a black wax seal, and a script I would recognize anywhere.  Mother.  I grasp it tightly in my hand and slip out of the room, grabbing another glass of mulled wine before retreating outside.  I cast a warming charm over myself and settle into a swing on the porch. 

 

_Draco,_

_Many blessings to you this yuletide season, my son.  Thank you for the tin of biscuits.  Once your father discovered them, he sent them to the house elves but not before I had a chance to have one or two.  They were lovely. Wherever did you learn to bake?_

_I beg you, my darling, please come home.  Do your duty and honor the contract your father has prepared for you.  Astoria is a delightful girl and I’m certain the pair of you would grow to love one another in time.  Time is running out Draco.  Your father will not tolerate this foolishness for much longer before he truly begins proceedings to disinherit you.  He’s held off for the past few months, hoping you would relent and return home especially after your access to the vaults was denied, but he is growing impatient._

_You are a Malfoy, Draco, and with that comes responsibilities.  It is time for you to return and take up the responsibilities as heir of his noble house. Please do not disappointment us, Draco._

_Mother_

I have to resist the urge to crumple the letter into a ball and hurl it out into the swirling snow.  Instead, I tuck it back into the envelope and refresh the warming charm before staring out into the snow as I ponder my mother’s words.

 

I can only imagine when father actually begins the proceedings to disinherit me that it will be all over the Prophet and any other wizarding publication he can sell the story to.  Astoria will play the part of the broken-hearted fiancée and my father will make it out as though he were protecting the girl’s virtue or something equally awful.  Mother has always been the peacemaker in our family, though she often sided with my father – which she still appears to be doing, even if she did compliment the biscuits and attempt to ply me with honor and duty.

 

For the first time in my life, I’m living for me.  I’m barely standing on my own two feet, but I’m still upright.  I have a job, friends, and some semblance of a family since the Weasley’s have a habit of adopting strays. 

 

I’m shocked out of my thoughts by Hermione’s soft voice, “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, settling next to me on the swing, my new cloak and gloves in her hands. 

 

“Nothing has changed.” I shrug my shoulders and take the precious items from her wrapping myself up in their warmth.  “Do your duty, Draco.  Marry the girl you don’t love, Draco.  Bring honor to the family, Draco.”  I can’t help but sneer while Hermione has the audacity to laugh. 

 

I expect her to go into a tirade about the patriarchy and how backwards pureblood society can be, but she doesn’t. 

 

“Dishonor on you.  Dishonor on your cow?”

 

I snort with laughter.  She made me watch that movie a few weeks ago and I can’t help but draw a few parallels.

 

“Are you going to reply?” she asks after our fit of laughter has subsided.

 

I huff out a breath, watching as it turns white against the cold air.  “I probably should. The sooner Lucius gets it over with, the better.” 

 

She takes my hand in hers and smiles up at me.  It’s not a pitying smile I would normally suspect to see in this kind of situation, but it’s one that speaks of pride.  The witch is actually proud of me.  “Let’s get back inside where it’s warm.  Molly wanted to wait until you came back in to serve dessert.”

 

I feel a pang in my chest at the thought that someone not of my own blood would want to wait for my presence before serving part of a meal.  I’m moved by the sentiment and I feel a smile creeping across my face for the first time since I stepped outside (the fits of laughter didn’t count – that was involuntary).  “I’ll bet Potter is getting a bit antsy for some of her famous treacle tart.” 

 

I love making Hermione laugh and I know my smile broadens when she does.  “He’s getting a bit restless, but you’ll need to watch out for Ron.  He gets in a state when he doesn’t have some type of food in his hand.” 

 

Before I know it, we’re both giggling like children (again) on the swing outside as the snow falls down around us.  I briefly think back to the letter my mother sent me and am thoroughly convinced that there is no place I’d rather be.  I’ll write to my mother in the morning, but tonight is for friends… and new family. 

 

……….

 

New Years is upon us a few days later.  I sent my letter off on Boxing day, just as I said I would and have yet to hear anything back from my parents.  I’ve washed my hands of them for the moment, content to do what I can to be happy in this new life I’ve created for myself.  The home Hermione and I share is still decorated with all manner of Christmas and Yule décor and the silly witch refuses to take it down until after the new year passes.  She insists it’s bad luck or something but I think she is just trying to hang on to the season for just a bit longer.

 

I’ve been back at work for a few days now since the holidays have ended.  Mr. Cavendish seems pleased with my work ethic and I’ve developed a certain closeness to the man.  The shop is slowly getting busier and I think it’s partly due to the fact that it resembles a proper apothecary once more.  It took several weeks, but I finally managed to get the shop in order.  Everything is arranged, clean, and displayed as it should be.  Every once in a while, when it is slow, he allows me to bottle potions he’s brewed and even assist in brewing by pulling ingredients from our shelves, chopping and slicing various and sundry items, and checking the color and consistency of the brews.

 

I’m hoping that this small step means that an apprenticeship is in my future, but he’s made no mention of it.  His son was by the other day, having returned for the holidays, and seemed to show little interest in the apothecary.  I know Mr. Cavendish was looking forward to passing it along, but I’m afraid it may simply become abandoned or sold to a larger firm once the time comes when he passes.  He’s certainly not very spry. 

 

I think I’ve come to care for the man – a bit beyond the relationship of an employer and an employee.  He was one of the first ones to truly give me a chance and while I’m appreciative of that, he continues to treat me with respect which isn’t often seen in the professional relationships I’ve witnessed.  My father rarely treated his employees with anything other than indifference, at best. 

 

An odd smell in the shop catches my nose and I rush from the back shelves where I had been organizing a few of the more volatile reagents towards the front.  One of the cauldrons is smoking terribly and Mr. Cavendish is nowhere to be seen.  I take a quick moment to glance at the other cauldrons and realize there could be utterly disastrous effects if the one that has gone off ends up exploding and mixing with the other brews. 

 

I point my wand towards the cauldron with the offensive smell and manage to place it in stasis.  Approaching the now stabilized cauldron, I eye the contents.  The brew, which was a clear turquoise when I started organizing a few moments earlier, has turned to a dark, murky fuchsia. 

 

“Too much ginger and perhaps an extra stir,” I mutter to myself before vanishing the contents.

 

“Well done.”

 

The voice of Mr. Cavendish comes from behind me and I whirl around.  “Pardon, sir?”

 

“That was quick thinking there, young Malfoy.  The stasis charm allowed you to see exactly what went wrong with the brew so you know where to improve for next time.”  The old man has a smile on his face as he makes his way towards the brewing station. 

 

“Next time, sir?” I’m probably staring at him with my mouth agape but I’m feeling rather confused since I didn’t brew this particular draught to begin with. 

 

He nods and claps a hand on my shoulder, “I’d like you to take over the brewing of the Invigoration Draughts, Pepper-Up Potions, and Vitamixes for the next week.” 

 

I can’t help the smile that rises to my face.  “Thank you, sir.  I would be honored.”  And truly, I’m honored he places that much trust in me.  While fairly common brews, those are some of our best sellers and it’s humbling that he trusts me enough to brew them for our customers.

 

He gives a hearty chuckle.  “Don’t say that just yet.  Being an apprentice is hard work and I need to make sure you’re up to the task.” 

 

Now I know my eyes are as big as galleons.  “An apprenticeship, sir?”

 

“Let’s see how this week goes, my boy.”

 

He wanders into the backroom of the shop, presumably to check on a few of the more boutique brews, as I’m left there nodding – probably a bit dumbly.  This apprenticeship is the best thing I could hope for, at the moment.  It’s a chance to prove myself and to make something of myself.  I’m not ashamed of being a shop boy in the least, but to think myself a proper potions master – now that’s a dream.  It’s something to strive for, at any case, and the possibilities that come along with that title are momentous.  I could brew for St. Mungo’s, own my own Apothecary, teach in one of the magical schools, liaise with various private Healers for their potions needs, invent new brews or research… truly the possibilities are endless.

 

I can’t wait to finish my day and tell Hermione.

 

……….

 

She’s in the kitchen when I walk through the front door to the flat we share.  There some kind of amazing smell wafting through the air and I’m fairly certain she’s baked a pie.  There’s no specific occasion that I know of, but I will happily eat whatever she decides to bake – even if there isn’t a reason. I hang my things on the coat rack near the door, tucking the gloves into the coat and removing my scarf.  I let the amazing smells coming from the kitchen relax me so she won’t immediately notice that I’m about to burst out of my skin. 

 

It doesn’t last long before I’m babbling about everything that happened earlier in the day.

 

Before I know it, she’s leaning against the counter, opening a bottle of wine and we’re toasting to my possible apprenticeship.  She gives me one of her beaming smiles which only serves to make her more lovely in my eyes.  When I realize she’s dressed for yet another date (one which I hope will be a complete flop), my mood falls just a bit.  I know she’ll come home and tell me all about it, but I don’t want her to go in the first place.  I want her here, with me.

 

It’s not necessarily a new revelation, but it’s the first time I’ve felt an actual ache in my chest at the thought of her going out on yet another date – wining and dining with another wizard and possibly being charmed by whoever he is. She hasn’t been charmed yet by any of the men she has dated, but who’s to say it couldn’t happen?

 

It’s a terrifying thought.

 

I sip my glass of wine in quiet contemplation as she removes the pie from the oven to cool.  Except it’s not a pie – it’s a cake.  A delicious almond flavored cake if the smells are anything to go by. 

 

“I’m so proud of you, Draco.  This is what you wanted,” she’s beaming again as she puts the set of bright orange oven mitts back into the drawer and I just want to lose myself in her smile.

 

“It is,” I reply, taking another sip of my wine so she hopefully won’t notice any change in my demeanor.

 

She grabs that hideous beaded bag from the counter and presses a kiss to my cheek before turning to leave for her date.  “Well, I’m off..” she says with what seems to be a forced smile after ensuring the cake is in an optimal place for cooling.

 

Perhaps it’s the wine, perhaps it’s the realization that I have a shot at making something of myself, or perhaps it’s how vehemently I don’t want her to leave that makes me do the unthinkable.

 

I cross the space in a few short strides and take her hands in mine, pressing her back against the door.

 

“Draco, what –”

 

“Please don’t go.”  The words escape my mouth before I can stop them and I’m staring into her brilliant brown eyes. I think I’ve rendered her speechless because she’s gone very quiet but her lips are parted and she’s gazing up with what I can only describe as bewilderment.  I can almost see the thought swirling around in her brilliant mind.

 

I drop my forehead against hers and pull her into my arms, relishing in the feeling of her body molded against my own.  “Please, Hermione.  Stay with me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

The word barely registers before she nudges my nose with hers and I feel her arms snake around my neck. Before I fully know what has happened, my lips are on hers and she’s making the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard as she returns the kiss with equal fervor.  It’s tentative, exploratory, at first but morphs quickly into one of the most passionate, heat-filled moments of my entire life and I doubt I will ever forget what kissing this witch feels like. 

 

We break apart, panting, and I’m nearly certain we’re both flushed as everything feels so warm, wonderful, and safe.  Its everything I hoped for, everything I’ve dreamed and fantasized about – and more. 

 

I feel her fingers graze my cheek and I open my eyes to find hers shining with affection.  She rises to her toes and pecks me on the lips once more before resting her head against my shoulder.  My arms instinctively tighten around her and I can’t help the smile I know rises to my lips.

 

“Thank you,” I mutter against her curls, “for staying.”

 

I may have imagined it because it was uttered so quietly, but I swear I heard her say, “there is no place I’d rather be.”

 


End file.
